


Show Me How

by wolfgraham



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bonding, Breeding, Collars, Come Marking, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Extremely Dubious Consent- due to the nature of the bond, Feminization, Forced Bonding, Hannibal Lecter Being an Asshole, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Humiliation, I actually really like Chilton but he's an asshole here, Knotting, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal Lecter, Manipulative Will Graham, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Beta Read, Omega Will Graham, Pregnancy Kink, References to Addiction, Scent Marking, Slight Voyeurism, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, Virginity Kink, broken bonds, intersex omega
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfgraham/pseuds/wolfgraham
Summary: The door is being flung open from the other side with a loud, shattering bang and the alpha in front of him is yelling something at the others. There’s a flood of blinding light, and the strong, heady musk of alpha intensifies as they all scramble in after one another, as if mindlessly searching for the source of the distress call. Their eyes burrow into him, irises tinged with red, dangerous, it is reminiscent of the stop light flickering over the pavement on his way into Baltimore: oh, so lovely, yet menacing. The alphas all circle around him like starving wolves. Crowding him. Trapping him. The omega in him screaming, yes, yes, let’s be sweethearts, while outwardly he bares his fangs at them. At the first unwelcome sensation of hands pressing against his heated skin, and as a sharp, excruciating spasm assaults his sinuses, something inside of him snaps, pure animal instinct taking over any remaining rational thought.Ripping and tearing in self-preservation.-After viciously attacking four police officers in a fevered state, due to suppressant overdose, Will is sent to Dr. Chilton's new state of the art rehabilitation center for violent Alphas and 'troubled' Omegas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> gonna say fuck it and post this, because it's been stuck in editing limbo for months now and it might motivate me to finish something. obviously, i've drawn a lot of inspiration from the other a/b/o writers on here- thanks to this fandom for having introduced me to it lol. i'd also like to add that i'm quite new-ish to the fandom and have never actually written anything before, so be gentle? ((one quick note: male omegas are intersex in this universe, if that bothers anyone.)) enjoy. i'll try to add the proper tags as we go. i'm bad at this. p.s. there is probably a tiny change in style from ch 1 to 2 since ch 1 was written months before. at its core this is more of a writing exercise for me lol. i'll shut up now.
> 
> not beta-read at all, sorry for mistakes or any awkwardness.

CH1

 

Will feels _restless_ , or at least, that's the only word to describe the incessant itching of his skin and what feels like molten lava bubbling dangerously at his core, lurking, waiting for the inevitable eruption. The heat burns throughout his upper body and trickles its way down into each individual limb. It's far more intense than his usual bouts of nighttime anxiety, that's for certain. This is something of an entirely different nature.

 

Will tosses and turns in anguish, every which way, until the sheets are twisted up into one chaotic heap and he's adrift within the coarse, 200-thread count sea of grey.

 

The dogs know better than to share his bed. Winston is the only one stubborn enough to try. Will’s leg twitches, an automatic response to the cold, wet nose pressing against the heated skin of his thigh. The dog shuffles around for a while, prodding and pawing, until eventually deciding to prop his furry snout upon his abdomen, curling around him in an affectionate attempt to soothe the agitated omega. Will’s not sure how Winston manages to put up with all the nocturnal trashing on such a regular basis, but he appreciates it, nonetheless. The dogs are the only true omegan comfort that he permits himself. He’s found that his little makeshift pack is more than enough to sate the deeply rooted longing for a family and his foolish nurturing instincts; both things that have been biologically coded into his DNA since birth.

 

Will smiles to himself, despite the discomfort, bringing one hand down to ruffle gently at his furry companion’s head, until the rapid beating of his heart has slowed to an acceptable pace, and finally, he succumbs to the weighted fluttering of his eyelids.

 

*

 

Will’s able to squeeze in anywhere from at least an hour to two hour’s worth of relatively blissful and undisturbed sleep. That is, until the chiming of his ringtone slices through the peaceful quiet of the bedroom in a grating loop - it’s one of the default tones, #13 maybe, he’s never bothered to change the damn thing. Will groans, flopping over onto his side, toward the glow of the display, and reaches for his cell phone. It goes silent, buzzing once to notify him of the missed call. Will scrubs the sleep from his eyes with his free hand and sluggishly taps in his passcode.

 

4:46 AM: 2 Missed calls. All from Jack Crawford, of course. Who else?

 

Will yawns and as he is about to return Jack’s call, he pauses midway, finger stuck hovering above the screen, becoming increasingly - alarmingly- aware of how much _sweat_ he’s covered in. A disgusting pool of sweat. It’s everywhere, from head to toe; the sheets, the pillow, his clothes. He’s completely _drenched_. Even his curls have gone flat, plastering themselves to the back of his neck and forehead, the thin white shirt he’s wearing clings uncomfortably tight against his scorching skin; his underwear feel like they’re in even worse shape - a gross, sticky mess.

 

Will pushes himself up into a sitting position and cautiously rubs both thighs together; ashamed at how easily they slide together, how indecent it feels. It's his father’s heavily accented voice that bounces around inside his head: _omegas are nothing more than filthy whores_. In this brief moment of weakness, he struggles to bite back the pathetic whimper that nearly spills from his throat, forcing down the pitiful lump with a harsh bob of his adam’s apple, and it’s so stereotypically _omegan_ of him, that he can’t help but toss his phone down in self-disgust; watching as it bounces and lands near the foot of the bed. He lets out a shaky breath, brushing his curls back, and away from his brow, as he rises from the bed, careful, so as not to disturb the dogs. Winston shifts at the movement, and regards him with a curious tilt of his head, but, sensing no immediate threat, decides it best to stay put for the meantime.

 

Will makes his way into the small bathroom where he finds himself standing in front of the sink for what feels like hours, staring down into the dark, rust-colored tunnel of the drain until his vision has gone blurry. The cool porcelain gripped painfully between both hands, supporting his full weight, and the soles of his bare feet upon the chilled tiles come as heavenly relief to the liquid fire that continues its rapid descent throughout his body. Somewhere, far away, the phone continues to ring. Faint, faint, loud, loud, until it’s suddenly too loud, like someone's twisted the dial in his head from one and straight to twenty. Will nearly jumps out of his skin.

 

What the hell is wrong with him?

 

Dissociating in his bathroom at -  what, four something in the morning? Underwear stuck to his ass in what he hopes to god is sweat and not slick - because, honestly, at this point he's too afraid to actually check. ‘ _There’s a word for that_ ’, his uncooperative mind supplies, ‘ _Denial._ ’ The thought did occur to him, the most obvious conclusion would be his… his heat? No. He knows it isn't the beginnings of pre-heat sickness. Can’t be. And, besides what appear to be the symptoms of a mild fever, he doesn't feel the telltale stirrings of arousal whatsoever. Plus, it'd be physically impossible, for the simple fact that he's never gone a single day without his suppressants.

 

Christ.

 

He was severely overthinking this, wasn't he? It could just be the flu or something. One of his students could have passed it onto him. Simple as that.

 

Yes, the flu. That has to be it.

 

_Please be the flu._

 

Will shakes his head, muttering to himself, “Will Graham, get it together.” His voice echoes softly in the stillness of the bathroom, as he swings open the old, paint chipped medicine cabinet. There are various bottles of medication, there’s no particular order to it, a few brands of painkillers, some first aid essentials, and three bottles with the same offensively bright yellow warning label slapped onto them:

 

_Hormone Suppressants (Maximum Strength). Take one tablet once every week._

 

_Warning: for Omegas only._

 

Will takes one look at the boldly printed letters and scoffs, grabbing the nearest bottle of painkillers, along with the suppressants, as he shakes the pills out onto his clammy palm. He downs the both of them, twisting on the faucet and chasing them down with a couple of handfuls of water, making sure to splash some onto his overheated face as well. And in another bout of frustration, he slams the cabinet door shut and purposely avoids meeting his reflection in the mirror. He _feels_ _awful_ , doesn’t need the mirror to prove it.

 

After Will spends a minute or so practicing deep breathing exercises and debating whether or not now is a good time to return Jack’s call (doesn’t know if he can stand to put up with Jack’s unnecessary alpha posturing), he decides, instead, to take a quick, much-needed shower. It’s obvious what it is that Jack wants from him, it’s the only reason he ever calls him, and he can’t exactly go around crime scenes reeking of sweat. Even worse, omega sweat. The cool stream of the water does help to ground him - calms his rapid breathing, brings relief to his fevered body, and caresses his overly tense muscles like a soothing balm. By the end of it, he almost feels normal - his definition of normal, anyway. If only he could get rid of the dull, throbbing pain in his sinuses.

 

Will leaves the restroom, toweling down his damp curls as he walks, and picks up his phone from where he’d tossed it in an, admittedly, somewhat embarrassing fit. He massages the bridge of his nose in preparation and, before he’s able to change his mind again, the guilt finally overriding (people are dying and he’s at home whining about the damn flu), hits the call button next to his boss’s name.

 

It connects on the second ring.

 

“Will,” shouts the man on the other line, his voice comes out harsh and tinny through the speaker of the phone. Will cringes, slightly. There’s a brief pause, followed by muffled voices that Will recognizes as belonging to Zeller and Price, no doubt in the midst of some ridiculous argument. “About damn time you answered the phone. We’ve got another murder, another unfortunate couple - we think it’s the work of the Sweetheart killer. I’m gonna need you down in Baltimore as soon as possible.” Jack certainly wastes no time.

 

“Right, sorry.” Will sighs, phone pressed against one shoulder, as he sprays himself down with beta cologne. The script is always the same between the two of them. “I’ll be right there.” He brings both his wrists up for a quick sniff at his pulse point, then his armpits, making sure that none of his natural scent has managed to sneak through. It is awfully paranoid of him, but you can never be too certain, and hell, it’s a tough habit to break.

 

“Good,” says Jack. “I already texted you the address.”

 

There’s another burst of shouting that follows, but thankfully none of it is directed toward him. Still, Will can feel Jack’s ill mood practically radiating through the end of his shitty, work issued, blackberry.

 

The back of his nape tingles with displeasure, as the line goes dead.

 

*

 

It takes him a bit over two hours to make it into Baltimore, thanks to the early morning rush. In truth, Will’s not sure if he was entirely conscious for the half of it. It comes in blurs, shifting images, colors and shapes melding together into one giant kaleidoscopic mess. Time is fragmented, shattered into tiny, painful shards of glass; impossible to gather them back into one complete whole. He’d been sitting in his car at a red light one minute, the ruby haze of the stop light illuminating the outer edges of his vision, melting, no, dripping onto the pavement below in a crimson pool, both lovely and menacing, and the next thing he knew he was -

 

He’s not in his car anymore, that much is obvious. Nor is he still within the safety of his cozy little home in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

 

The room is dark and dingy, the layout of the bedroom is unfamiliar to him, with only a sliver of daylight seeping in through the curtained windows. There is a horrible odor permeating the place, a disgusting combination of pheromones layered on top of what he now suddenly realizes is the stench of death, so potent, that Will feels as if he's physically choking. The pain in his sinus has gone from dull to excruciating; a three to ten on the pain scale. He can’t help but gag and stumble backward.

 

His eyes dart up, searching, and that’s when he spots it. The two bodies suspended from the ceiling fan above the bed, each with a noose around their necks. Strung up and posed in someone’s grotesque vision of an embrace.

 

Alpha and Omega.

 

_Sweethearts._

 

Will shakily places his hand on top of the bedroom dresser behind him and slowly pushes himself upright, he’s gasping for breath. His senses are too overstimulated, it’s too much for him, his mind feels like it’s on fire. He needs something, no, he needs someone, needs an alph--

 

 _‘No, no_ .’ Will bites his tongue. ‘ _Stop_ -’

 

Someone grabs his shoulders roughly. “Will! Can you hear me? Snap out of it!”

 

‘ _Alpha!_ ’ Will’s only response is a throaty, strangled sound, caught somewhere between a whimper and a growl. His whole body jerks at the sensation of the alpha’s, large, threatening hands gripping onto his shoulders, at the wrongness of it, and he presses back, away, and into the wooden dresser. A picture frame of a family he doesn’t recognize, their faces are too blurred, warped, tips over with a crash. He crouches down into a defensive position and yelps loudly, once in distress, before letting out a low warning growl.

 

“Will, I need you to calm down,” the alpha says, approaching slowly and cautiously, as one would a wild,  frightened animal. “It’s me, Jack.”

 

It's too late. He can’t make out any of the words.

 

The door is being flung open from the other side with a loud, shattering bang and the alpha in front of him is yelling something at the others. There’s a flood of blinding light, and the strong, heady musk of alpha intensifies as they all scramble in after one another, as if mindlessly searching for the source of the distress call. Their eyes burrow into him, irises tinged with red, _dangerous_ , it is reminiscent of the stop light flickering over the pavement on his way into Baltimore: oh, so lovely, yet menacing. The alphas all circle around him like starving wolves. Crowding him. Trapping him. Wanting nothing more than to devour him whole. The omega in him screaming, yes, yes, _let’s be_ _sweethearts_ , while outwardly he bares his fangs at them. At the first unwelcome sensation of hands pressing against his heated skin, and as a sharp, excruciating spasm assaults his sinuses, something inside of him snaps, pure animal instinct taking over any remaining rational thought.

 

Ripping and tearing in self-preservation.

 

_Omega…? …Will... stay back…!_

 

The bitter taste of iron floods his mouth.

 

*

 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

 

 _God_ , won’t Jack let him sleep in for once?

 

It’s getting exceedingly harder to explain to Jack why he’s constantly arriving at crime scenes so last-minute all of the damn time. The sleepless nights, coupled with the ridiculous and _highly inconvenient_ routine of having to conceal his gender each and every goddamn day. Will groans and swings his arm out, blindly reaching for the surface of his nightstand, only marginally confused when instead, his arm slumps weakly to the side. Something props up his wrist and forces it back down against the bedding - it is promptly followed by an odd, rustling sound and an out of place pressure around his wrists.

 

“Winston,” Will chides, faintly. If Winston has decided to start chewing up the furniture again despite all the months of training, he’s going to be severely disappointed in him.

 

Will drifts off for one beautifully content moment, his mind blanking into warm, fuzzy darkness.

 

“Rise and shine, darling.”

 

_What?_

 

Will chokes out a startled gasp and with some difficulty, he tries wiggling his fingers, spreads them out against the cool sheets below, then rapidly blinks open his eyes. He squints in disorientation for a brief couple of seconds, as the harsh lights come into view, waiting anxiously for his vision to properly finish adjusting to his surroundings.

 

And it is with deep dread and a sinking feeling, that Will recognizes this voice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for any mistakes!

CH2

 

Dr. Frederick Chilton.

 

Will immediately pushes down the resulting wave of panic and settles his face into something of indifference, possibly bordering on disgust, because the last thing he’ll do is give this man the satisfaction of watching him crack. It’s what he does for a living, what gets his rocks off, watching nonconformist omegas succumb to their ‘highly submissive natures’ through _highly illegal_ experimentation. Will thinks that for a beta to subscribe to such offensive notions, well, that one must be harboring one hell of an inferiority complex- likely comparative to the size of the gulf and he’ll have no part in stepping foot into those murky waters.

 

Though having only met with him the one time in person, due to a particularly dull case involving an omegan serial killer whose preferred method of killing was through the use of- _surprise!_ \- poison and through Jack Crawford’s insistence, it is unmistakable, the man behind the voice. Chilton is the illustrious - and highly dubious, Will might add - author of numerous series of publications on the subject of omegan psychology; in particular, that of deviant and criminal behavior. According to Chilton, the cause of this deviation all boils down to one simple explanation: an unbonded omega is an unhappy omega. It is physically and psychologically scarring for an omega past a certain heat cycle (typically noted as their second) to continue to remain unclaimed by a ‘big, strong’ alpha. Why! It’s simply against their nature. Etc, etc. The man has a list of made-up illnesses in his glossary for god’s sake.

 

If you ask Will, the lot of it is highly bigoted and egotistical nonsense, a quick peek inside any one of his books is more than enough for anybody to readily discern this. And if anything is positive to be said, his works make good kindling for the fireplace. Trust him, he’s tested it. A 5-star rating, in that regard.

 

_Focus, Graham._

 

As to his current predicament: Will isn’t dull. The fact that he’s been strapped down against his will, smack dab in the middle of what appears to be a clinical setting of some sort, judging by the loud, steadily beeping equipment- his sinuses pulsating alongside its dreadfully shrill beat- and electrodes fastened to his chest. None of it spells any good news. Especially not by the way Chilton is peering down at him from overhead, smug, victorious, and wholly curious. The harsh lights from behind,  illuminating and rather emphasizing the large syringe in Chilton’s left hand, filled to the brim with a clear, nearly transparent liquid.

 

A sedative, Will gathers. It would explain the fuzzy itch along his skin and nausea churning through his gut.

 

_Well, this clearly turned out to be more than the simple flu._

 

“Dr. Chilton.” It’s less of a greeting and more of an unpleasant observation. Will growls warningly at the man, as he squirms in place awkwardly, his body still sticky with residual sweat. He tenses his muscles painfully against the restraints, testing their give.

 

Chilton simply smiles in that infuriatingly smarmy manner that is uniquely his and reaches down to pat Will’s cheek, ruddy with heat and embarrassment, as if he were fondly caressing a pet. “Oh, William, I’ve always known there was something special about you. But this? Why this is just perfect.” Will shivers and flinches away from his touch, trying not to gag at the bitter musk emanating from his wrist. He’d love nothing more than to punch this man, but the straps around his wrists, unfortunately, prevent him from doing so. “An omega masquerading as a beta.” Chilton tsks. “Tell me, Will. How long did you expect to have everyone fooled?”

 

“Really?” Will bares his fangs and huffs out an incredulous laugh when it finally dawns on him, the cause of that ill-smelling odor. Oh, that’s rich. “Is that alpha pheromones you’ve applied to your wrists? Why not face it, Chilton? You’ll never be the predator you try so very hard at parading yourself as. If anyone's masquerading, it’s _you_.”

 

Chilton’s hand shoots forward in less than a blink and wraps around Will’s throat, squeezing forcefully at the major pressure point found near his pulse. It’s a form of gentling- the more socially acceptable term for when one wrestles an unruly or misbehaving omega into submission for the sake of their wellbeing, typically without their consent. Another biological advantage that alpha’s have over omegas, something that betas do not naturally possess.

 

It takes Will’s brain a few moments to catch up to the motion, to the way his body lurches forward against his bindings, shamelessly seeking for more, and how his mouth drops open at the rush of euphoria winding its way throughout his core. Mentally cursing at how his traitorous omegan instincts eagerly race to curl up at even the faintest hint of an alpha’s pheromones. That the beta doctor would so easily and underhandedly manipulate his biology this way makes him absolutely livid.

 

Chilton studies him for a while longer, curiously gauging his reaction, and finally releases him. Clearly pleased with himself, the bastard.

 

Will sucks in a deep, shallow breath and after a short pause says, “I would like to speak to Jack Crawford.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’ve caused quite a huge stir over at Quantico. Jack’s under a lot of heat right now,” says Chilton, thoughtfully raising an eyebrow at him. “Did Jack know about you? Did you two have--”

 

“No!” Will blurts, face immediately twisting in horror. If Chilton is suggesting that he and Jack... ? The mere idea of it. _God_. No. “No, he doesn’t know- didn’t know.”

 

“Well, you’ve always been a smart cookie, Will. I’m sure you realize why you’re here.”

 

Will clenches his jaw and turns his attention to the man’s hideously gaudy tie. “I can guess.”

 

“Then let me reassure you. We’ve had quite the success rate in the few months we’ve been up and operating. 90% of our Alpha and Omega pairs have gone on to become completely reformed. I’m certain even you are capable, given enough time,” says Chilton, reaching again for his face, the hand with the syringe hovering dangerously close to Will’s neck.

 

Will snaps at his fingers.

 

Chilton recoils and all traces of his phony bravado seem to be swept away in a single instance, he stares solemnly at Will and brushes down his suit in evident unease, before retreating to a small table off to the side. Will is left a bit confused by the rather abrupt shift in Chilton’s overall composure, but quietly rejoices at the fact. That feeling, however, quickly deflates, as the gravity of the situation fully settles in.

 

Will turns his head, gaze following, but in his current position, it’s hard to tell exactly what Chilton is up to and he suspects he’d rather not find out. “So, what? Being an omega is a crime now?” Will snarls, twisting in his restraints. “You can’t do this. I won’t take part in your ridiculous experiments, Chilton. If you won’t let me speak to Jack, then I demand a lawyer.”

 

“Will, you gave up your rights when you lied your way into a government position. There’s evidence of you illegally purchasing and abusing suppressants that can only be found through the black market. You- ” Chilton shakes his head and sighs, reappearing next to Will’s bedside and holding a familiar looking mask made of plastic, with heavy, leather straps dangling from it. An anti-bite mask, as if he’s a fucking feral dog about to be muzzled, like he’s Hannibal fucking Lecter on the cover of the latest edition of Tattle Crime. The alpha who ripped out the throats of hundreds of his victims and cannibalized their organs for dinner. The one he helped profile and -

 

“What is the last thing you remember?”

 

“I-...” Will swallows, eyeing the mask with visible dread. The last thing he remembers? And that is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? The vastly gaping void of lost time and consciousness.  

 

It’s probably not the brightest idea in the world to take your eyes off a man who can’t wait to strip away your freedoms and pump you full of experimental drugs, but it’s the only way he knows he’ll be able to concentrate on sifting through the wreckage of his memories and restore the final missing piece of the puzzle; the sequence of events that have ultimately lead him straight into Chilton’s slimy hands. Will allows his eyes to slip shut. The pendulum swings backward and forward, the room materializes into darkness, an empty space in time where only he exists. It’s close, he thinks, spreading his palms against the wall stretching far in front of him preventing him further access. All he needs is a tiny crack, _anything_.

 

There!

 

He’s in his own bedroom, ear pressed up against the phone while Jack Crawford’s booming voice drifts through the speaker, followed by static, snow on the decrepit television set from his childhood where his father laid passed out drunk in front of most days. Will sees himself being wheeled into Chilton’s glorified prison, the sedatives traveling excessively through his bloodstream. Chilton gripping him tightly by the jaw and taking the razor to his face. The searing hot pain of the needle traveling across the tender flesh of his inner wrist; _they branded me_ . Chilton stripping him down to nothing while Will uselessly tries pushing away his hands, the pink prison-style uniform forced over his head and around his waist. Pink is the designated color for Omegas, it’s standard regulation. _You understand, Will._

 

Now is the worst time for Will to spiral into a full-blown panic attack, but there’s no controlling it. Whatever he’s done to wind up here, his life is over, Chilton will broadcast his name to the entire public and once Freddie Lounds gets word of it ( _if she hasn’t already_ ), he’ll be the one to take Hannibal Lecter’s place on this month's Tattle Crime. Nobody will come for him, he has absolutely nobody but his _dogs_. Christ, what will happen to his dogs? At this point, he genuinely begins to feel himself hyperventilating.

 

“I d-don’t-” Will stammers, darting his eyes open and toward the nearest window where his panicked, barefaced reflection stares back at him. Without his facial hair, he looks about ten years younger, softer, the baby pink scrubs highlighting the rosy hue of his cheeks, the product of his un-suppressed hormones. (Has he always looked _that o_ megan?) If he were able to move his wrists any, he’d find the dark pigment of ink where the Ω-symbol has been permanently printed on his skin. Any and every shred of his dignity chewed up and spit out by Frederick Chilton, whom he adamantly refuses to recognize as a real licensed practitioner.

 

“Loss of memory is one of the most common side effects of hormone suppressants. Don’t worry, Will. We’ll have plenty of time to work on that,” Chilton says, jamming the needle into his neck and depressing the plunger.

 

Will hisses. “Stop...”

 

“Shh, shh,” Chilton hushes him like a small child and proceeds to run his revolting fingers through his hair, as if Will doesn’t already feel violated enough knowing that Chilton’s laid hands on his bare body. “Welcome to Baltimore’s new OmegaPoint Behavioral Facility. Or OBF for short.”

 

“What a stupid fucking name,” Will manages to slur out through the fog of drowsiness, the sedative already taking over the functions of his brain, at the same time that the mask is being fastened across his face. Next time he’ll bite the man’s fingers off, he swears it. He’ll fight the drugs as long as he has to, one last fuck you to the man. His consciousness flickers in and out while Chilton pushes a button on an intercom device and two large betas in white uniforms file into the room awaiting their boss’s orders.

 

“Which room, sir?”

 

Chilton replies, cheerfully, “Put him in with Lecter. I think they’re rather perfect for each other, don’t you?”

 

_You’ve got to be shitting me. If this is another nightmare, I’d really like to wake up now, please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal finally appears in the next chapter !


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments, everyone. Next update might be a while longer, sorry, since I have some important life stuff to take care of this week. Tbh, I kinda want to take the time to also rewrite chapter one... it was the first thing I ever wrote, moooonths back, and I think it shows. I'm just so lazy tho.

CH3

 

The layout of the facility is more akin to that of a high-security psychiatric hospital than any rehabilitation center Will’s ever seen, until they take him deeper down into the lower levels, both of the Betas dragging along his limp, motionless body from either side. Along the way, a few of the Alphas begin to shout out a wide, colorful array of obscenities at him through their cell windows, mostly along the lines of, _‘Got a hard knot right here for you, princess.’,_  and, his personal favorite, _‘Come over here and let me suck on that slick pussy.’_  Plus, the occasionally shrill whistle that is usually accompanied by catcalling.

 

Not to say that he isn’t remotely skeeved out by this, but Will finds that he is far too doped up right now for it to actually inspire any type of response in him, indignant or otherwise (not that he would grant them even an ounce), besides hanging his head like a submissive ragdoll and openly exposing his bare, unmarred nape, which only leads to further arousing them. Each of them hoping to end up with the winner’s lucky golden ticket - a rare, and extremely prized, male omega at the mercy of their depravity. Male Omegas make up less than 1% of the Omegan population, the majority of them being female, which regrettably leads to furthering the fetishization of their bodies -  as is currently demonstrated. But, little do they know, their most anticipated prize of the day has already been gift wrapped in a pretty pink bow and awarded to the good Dr. Lecter. _Better luck next time._

 

The transition from the upper floor levels and into the basement is like night and day. It’s largely well-maintained, blessedly free of the overwhelming stench of Alpha piss and other secretions, the perfectly waxed floors are near blinding beneath the fluorescent glare of lighting; and there’s the _delightfully_ nauseating chlorine smell of bleach, undoubtedly used to mask all the past traces of spilled blood and gore, courtesy of Lecter. Will doesn’t even bother trying to keep track with the number of security bypass locks and surveillance cameras lining the walls, it’s impossible in his current state.

 

How very reassuring.

 

Will squints his bleary eyes open long enough to view the cage of plexiglass situated at the heart of the room, where the man himself, Hannibal Lecter, sits calmly and composed, sketching away at his ornate desk. Looking all the world as if he were simply basking in the comfort of his own home - and the place may as well be furnished as such - rather than a wild animal enclosed in a glass zoo. He doesn’t even bother looking up, which inexplicably irritates Will a whole lot more than he’d care to admit. A solid chunk of his life had been spent at the beck and call of Jack Crawford, chasing after fleeting images of this man. The least he could do was fucking take the time to acknowledge him, which Will knows deep down is him being irrational, that it is the last thing he should hope for in this situation, but try explaining that one to his drug-addled mind.

 

_I lost so much sleep over you and you have no fucking clue who I am, do you?_

 

The orderly bangs a heavy fist against the plexiglass cell gate, with circular cut-outs for oxygen to travel to and from freely and a metal service hatch off to the side, necessary for the passage of objects or daily meals.

 

“Up against the wall, Lecter, you know the drill,” the man orders, waiting for Lecter to comply. Which he does so, rising smoothly and with an eerie poise, hands clasped behind his back, donning a pair of crisp, dark navy scrubs like it’s another one of his notoriously ostentatious three-piece suits instead of plain old run-of-the-mill prison garb.

 

Will feels his heart rate begin to spike.

 

The saying goes: the darker the blue, the purer the blood, and it is no secret to anyone that Lecter is anything but a pure-bred Alpha, through and through - coincidentally, the purer the blood, the more inclined one is to violence. It goes without saying, that compared to the common rabble of light blue that’s prowling around upstairs, Lecter’s shade of blue is so dark, it’s a mere step away from being black. It’s a striking and, to be absolutely honest, humiliating contrast to his dainty pink attire.

 

And, _oh_ , the tag on Lecter’s uniform bears the number #013, which is so inappropriately hilarious to Will, that he actually fails to contain a harsh snort of awkward laughter that rapidly descends into nervous giggles when Lecter finally locks sanguine colored eyes on him, an expression of utter indifference upon his angular face. _The number 13_ ! Will has always deemed it to be his lucky number, it was the date of his admission into the NOPD, the day he proved everyone, including his father, wrong, that omegas were just as capable on the force as any other alpha or beta. This must be some kind of cruel joke, the universe playing another one of its twisted jokes at his expense. That he should wind up here together, under the same lock and key, with the very man he worked so tirelessly to bring to justice. Leave it to Chilton, the smarmy bastard, to undo years of his hard work, all in the name of embarrassingly bad science. Is Jack even aware of this? Of Lecter living it up in an underground luxury cage, his preferred _meals_ readily provided, instead of rotting away in a maximum security prison where he belongs. Something tells Will that Jack, really, _really_ , isn’t.

 

Will is vaguely aware that his pathetic performance of uncontrollable hysterics is only helping to prove Chilton’s case, knowing that he is upstairs observing from the slew of cameras, and he doesn’t want to give off the impression of being checked off and categorized as another ‘unbonded Omega prone to neuroticism’ (Chilton’s words, not his), the type Lecter probably eats for lunch on a regular basis. _Good job, Will._

 

The orderly swipes the keycard around his neck and the door clicks open with a grating, head-splitting buzz. Will weakly digs his heels into the ground and takes a flimsy, poorly aimed swing at one of the uniformed men, he refuses to go over the threshold and into the beast’s lair that easily. There’s a brief scuffle, and by brief, he means terribly brief, because the next thing he knows, he’s being forced to his knees in the center of hell with the devil standing with his back against the wall, lip curling in the faintest whisper of amusement.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Lecter says, his accent thick and oozing as honey. Yes, good evening, like he’s simply having guests over for one of his obscenely lavish dinner parties - _where the food is people_. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

It’s...  okay, it's _odd_ , finally being able to put a voice to the face that had proceeded to haunt his dreams, waking included, for so long. Will’s not exactly sure how to feel about this, quite frankly, right now he feels as if he’s about to hurl on Lecter’s immaculately pristine canvas shoes.

 

“Got some fresh meat for you, Doctor.”

 

_Oh God. Please no._

 

Will winces, as the orderly grips him firmly by the curls and forces his head as far back as possible, putting his delicate throat on complete and total display to Baltimore’s finest apex predator, whose favorite past time just so happens to be ripping out the throats of those he considers to be lesser than himself and Will, his traitorous instincts at work again, can’t help the sick flutter in his stomach or the flush of color grazing his cheeks when Lecter’s predatory gaze slowly drifts over the blank canvas of skin before him.

 

The fickle Omega in him is swooning at being assessed in this type of manner by an Alpha of Lecter’s pedigree. The act of shamelessly baring one’s throat is traditionally only reserved for the final step of the courting process, an invitation to create a life long bond, built on the sacred trust between an Alpha and Omega pair that takes _years_ to establish. It’s a deeply humiliating and mortifying experience for him, especially with the way his body begins to respond, trembling with heated anticipation, the whine perched under his chin like he's some bashful teenage Omega on the cusp of their first heat. All this, despite the fact that Lecter is a psychopathic serial killer, who also happens to be a cannibal, mere moments away from proving this fact; and using Will as the example.

 

“Another, so soon? Was it not less than an hour ago that I made it quite clear that I am beginning to grow tired of the same boorish games, Dr. Chilton. No matter their rarity,” Lecter says, addressing the ringleader directly, his meager display of amusement from Will’s previous outburst replaced with flat out boredom. “I believe you already know the outcome of this.”

 

Will pointedly fixes his wavering attention to the spacious ceiling overhead and begins mentally ticking off the surveillance cameras in his vicinity, he’s curious as to how many angles his unquestionably violent death will be broadcasted in, before Chilton and his fellow cohorts rush to destroy the evidence; this turns out to be a lot more difficult when the room refuses to stop spinning. He thinks he’d prefer an instant kind of death, no chance of being tortured and forcefully bonded that way, or _worse_. There are words being exchanged, a conversation between one of the orderlies and Lecter, but it is immediately drowned out by his consciousness benevolently deciding to spare him the misery.

 

*

 

“You might want to hold off a bit before you go and do that, Dr. Lecter. This pretty little bird here is a _very_ special case.”     

 

Lecter peers down at Will’s slumped over figure, gauging the credibility of the aforementioned statement. “Please, do explain.”      

 

The orderly, a brunette, with an athletic build and closely-cropped hair, drops hold of Will, the three of them standing idly and watching him go face forward in a crumpled heap before them, the plastic restraint clattering noisily across the wood linoleum. The man then leans down to re-adjust the fastenings of Will’s mask, making sure there is adequate enough room to allow him to breathe properly through the air holes.

 

“Small precaution, only temporary,” he says, jostling around the straps. “Seems a little redundant when you consider who he’s rooming with, but this one’s a biter.” The orderly grins impishly at Lecter and follows up with an amused chuckle, “Word is, the bitch went feral and started attacking every Alpha in sight. Took a chunk straight out of someone’s neck -  poor guy died on the scene. The rest, I’m afraid, you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

 

“Is that so?” Lecter replies, interest clearly piqued anew by that tidbit of fact. “How very interesting.”

 

The orderly casually rolls Will onto his back, before he stands and brushes off his white coat. “Well, seems like the two of you have a lot in common already. I think you’ll get along just fine. Why don’t you help the bitch get settled in? I’ll be back with lunch for two, the usual time.” He wags his finger at Lecter, playfully. “Don’t go breaking your new toy _too_ quickly, now, you hear.”

 

Lecter clicks his tongue with displeasure. “What have I told you about language, Mr. Brown.” Matthew shrugs innocently and somewhat humorously, before departing from the cell, the bulkier orderly following suit.

 

“Goodbye for now, gentlemen,” Lecter says, in dismissal, then with a short nod toward the more reserved of the two, “Barney.”

 

The locking mechanism clicks shut with the raucous sound of the buzzer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will has daddy issues and a fixation on the number 13 *shrugs*. Don't psychoanalyze me!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for kudos <3 Tbh, I didn't think anyone would care for this. Sorry this took a while, but uhhh this chapter gave me hell, all 4k of it, and it's probably the longest thing I've written. I usually tend to lose major steam around 1k words in. Sorry for any mistakes, especially in the later half of it - I didn't wanna spend too much time looking over it! Things get a bit steamy, but this is a slow burn, after all. ;)

CH4

 

As Will gradually begins to regain consciousness, he finds himself on the hard floor, miserably sprawled out on his back, his designated attire completely soaked through in a panic-stricken cold sweat, and in the midst of a continuously spiraling nightmare scenario - a state he is vastly familiar with at this point in his life. He’s uncertain if it’s because of the drugs that are vigorously making their way out of his system or by the way Lecter is staring down at him from above with a quiet, severe demeanor ( _or possibly even a combination of the two?_ ), that makes for the rather unpleasant sensation in his gut. Their brief flash of accidental eye contact on Will’s part, the involuntary tremor that racks his body, when Lecter’s piercing red irises bore straight into his own pair of weary blue, makes Will want to float right out of his clammy skin, as a result of the onslaught on his mental forts, or lack thereof.

 

Will blinks and awkwardly darts his attention off to the side of Lecter’s face, opting for a safer substitute, like his remarkably broad shoulders ( _necessary for the transportation of bodies_ ), which only confirms Will’s suspicions that the man could snap him like a twig if he pleased; in the end, thanks to the cursed affliction of his overactive imagination, it’s the ceiling fixtures, yet again, that end up being the safest bet.

 

The daunting red glow to Lecter’s irises is not something that Will fails to notice either, seeing as it is nature’s way of graciously slapping a huge warning sign on the Alpha population: _danger, do not attempt to approach the wild animal._ Normally, the red coloration of the eye is only found in an Alpha experiencing their rut, but pure-breds are the one exception to this rule; for them, it is a naturally occurring biological phenomenon. It’s Will’s first glimpse at the wild, for the fact that pure-bred Alphas are almost as rare as he is nowadays, the textbooks and photographs _really_ don’t do it any justice. For any Omega being the focal point of that particularly chilling gaze, if you were to personally ask Will to describe it, he’d say it was equal to that of a live butterfly being helplessly pinned to a board, or in his case, the floor. Considering who the owner is, there’s no shame in admitting that.

 

_It certainly suits him._

 

Will cautiously raises a shaky hand to his throat, rubbing along his scent gland and checking the delicate area thoroughly for any noticeable damage or scarring, in the likely event that he _is_ bleeding out at Lecter’s feet, entirely unaware, and that this may truly be his own personal version of hell. He’d like to say he’s surprised when his hand comes away clean, but knowing Lecter, he’d prefer to lie still in wait before administering the striking blow, until the very moment his prey becomes fully aware of its own mortality.

 

_“Agh -”_ Will’s feeble attempt at speaking is temporarily hindered by him choking on his own spit and the pitiful coughing fit that occurs. The mask’s death vice around his face makes breathing moderately difficult, it’s humid and stifling, his rapid puffs of breath keep fogging up the insides of the plastic with a moist layer of condensation and, _ugh_ , there’s definitely a gross trickle of drool at the corner of his mouth.

 

After his throat has cleared and the resulting shame has died down to a tolerable level, Will grudgingly utters his first words to Hannibal Lecter,  “... I know you're not exactly known for employing the methods of humane slaughter, but I was hoping you'd make an exception.”

 

“ _Well_. Goodmorning.” Lecter gives a considerate tilt of his head and after a long scrutinizing look, gracefully kneels down to his level. “You speak as though you are familiar with my methods.”

 

_You don’t know the half of it._

 

Will huffs out a sarcastic laugh and picks at the peeling scab of ink on his wrist. _Tattooed like cattle_ . At least with this, there’s still hope for future removal _if_ by some miracle he were to make it out of here in one piece, instead of, god forbid, a hot iron brand. That’s one small mercy. “Isn’t everyone? I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that you’re the face on every media outlet these days.”

 

“Don’t pick.” Lecter admonishes him in that silky accent of his, he reaches out to sternly take hold of Will’s wrist, before hauling him up from the floor and into a sitting position. “You’ll only prolong the healing process.”

 

Will visibly flinches at their newfound proximity and guardedly lowers his chin, hunching up his shoulders to instinctively shield his soft parts.

 

_What’s he playing at here?_

 

Will furrows his brow in confusion, levels his eyes at Lecter’s chin, and exhales sharply. Is Lecter going to kill him or not? Death is honestly the preferable alternative, compared to whatever atrocities Chilton might have in store for him. He’s read snippets of what goes on behind the closed doors of the OmegaPoint facility: forced bonding, impregnation, experimental heat inducing drugs, breeding marathons, brainwashing through hypnotherapy, the list goes on. The man has also been known to _sample_ his subjects. It’s needlessly vile and has he mentioned _illegal_? Either way, he’s damned and he shudders to think of what’ll happen if Lecter decides he’d rather play with his food.

 

Will tugs free of Lecter’s grip and bites out a scathing reply, “What does it matter? Look, let’s cut to the chase, are you going to kill me or not? Because if not, I’d like to take the time to work on securing myself a way out of here.”

 

“What makes you think I want to kill you?”

 

“Allow me.” There’s little warning besides that, when Lecter reaches around to the back of Will’s head and slides his elegantly long fingers through his thick, unruly curls, lightly tilting his head forward to deftly undo the leather straps of his mask. Will tenses his shoulders in apprehension and swallows nervously at being handled in such a tender way by such brutalizing hands, unsure of what to expect or how to unpack Lecter’s vague response. This close, he can definitely _smell_ him, the heady waft of superior pheromones that causes the Omegan part of his brain to light up with giddy excitement and, _oh fuck_ , _it’s so good_ , the overpowering virile blend of musk and exotic spices, elevated by the dangerous undertone of coppery blood that sinfully lingers at the roof of Will’s mouth after one short inhale of it.

 

It’s not uncommon for an Alpha to wrest control of any situation, willing others into submission, through the deliberate misuse of their pheromones - Jack Crawford being one of the worst offenders of this. For that very same reason, Will finds it hard to deny Jack anything and it’s pointless trying to win an argument against the man when he immediately resorts to bombarding him into compliance. There’s also Chilton’s deplorable sleight of hand from before, slathering himself down in synthetic Alpha pheromones to help feed his inferiority complex.

 

Lecter is probably unaware of how powerful his natural, baseline scent is ( _or maybe he’s perfectly aware of what he’s doing_ ).

 

Will unconsciously leans into the Alpha’s pleasurable warmth and parts his lips, desperately sucking in mouthfuls of that intoxicating cloud of musk through the barrier of the mask until he feels drunk on it, the rush of blood making his cock twitch in interest, the faint beginnings of slick working to gather in his underwear and the animal part of his brain whispering treacherously in his ear of Lecter’s virility and superior Alpha genes, of their _compatibility_. It’s a dangerous train of thought, one he struggles to put a halt to, the last thing he needs is to go and imprint on Lecter, but the scent is already being stored away and compartmentalized in his mind.

 

Lecter seems to momentarily falter on the final leather fastening of his restraint, pausing to meet Will halfway plunging himself into the Alpha’s broad chest, before finally unhooking it, letting the mask slide away from Will’s face and drop to his lap. Will takes a deeply gratifying gasp of unobstructed air, which only gets him an even greater mouthful of pheromones, before self-consciously rubbing the moisture from around his mouth with the back of his hand. _Why is he reacting this strongly?_ Normally he’d have a better hold on himself, his Omegan responses practically lying dormant, but _this_ \- it’s entirely possible that Chilton has already made him into an unwilling clinical trial subject.

 

Nature's first lesson when it comes to finding yourself face to face with a predator is to never let them lull you into a false sense of security, especially not with their incredibly alluring scent and gentlemanly hands, a lesson that Will fails spectacularly when Lecter abruptly determines to pull a complete 180 on him, seizes him up by the throat in one fatal swoop and viciously slams him onto the cold floor, taking him right back down to square one. Will is left temporarily dazed by his head painfully smacking against the linoleum but quickly regains his bearings, his hard-wired survival instincts kicking into overdrive, as he thrashes wildly beneath Lecter’s grip, snarling and clawing at Lecter’s face, his arms, anything within striking distance; Will’s only immediate concern is survival. This may be the outcome he was expecting, but that still doesn’t mean he’ll go down without putting up a fight.

 

A rough jab of fingers into his Omegan pressure point is all it takes to instantly deflate him.

 

Chilton’s cheap imitation of gentling doesn’t even begin to compare to the real deal, at being skillfully maneuvered into submission by a _real_ Alpha, to the mind-numbing rush of endorphins that makes his eyes want to roll to the back of his head in sheer, indescribable pleasure. The lightning bolt of bliss that shoots down his spine to the sensitive curve of his back and rips out a choked, miserable whine from deep within his throat, his body going limp and boneless beneath him, while Lecter continues to effortlessly constrict his airway, reducing him to nothing more than a whimpering puppet with cut strings. Will’s helpless to resist, besides lie there in dull horror, when Lecter invades his personal space to nose along his smooth jawline and the tender juncture between his neck, taking a scandalously long inhale at his scent gland. _He’s scenting me,_ Will realizes with dread, the alarm bells going off in his head. _Oh god,_ _he’s scenting me, what if he isn’t trying to kill me, what if he -_

 

Will chokes out a quiet, “ _Don’t_ . _Please_.”

 

A shrill buzzer goes off in the distance, followed by the sound of one of the orderlies banging against the plexiglass with the dull end of a nightstick. “Hey, you two! Simmer down in there!”

 

The muffled sounds of the orderly shouting on the other end of the glass partition barely register over the rush of excess blood flowing to Will’s brain. As his vision precariously begins to swim and fade into darkness at the outer edges, Will gives one final push and allows his Omegan side to take over for him, releasing a heavy wave of distress hormones.

 

Lecter’s hold falls away almost instantly.

 

After releasing Will, he draws back onto his knees and raises both of his hands in a calming gesture, wholly unfazed by the angry red marks welling across his jaw where Will managed to successfully snag him, and wearing that same mask of pure, refined innocence like he hadn’t just attempted to strangle him to death in the middle of the room for no discernible reason ( _does he need one?_ ), Lecter goes on to say, “I do apologize. That was rather rude of me. However, I couldn’t help but notice that your scent is faint, near undetectable, a slightly chemical tinge. I found it odd. The rather unfortunate side-effect of suppressant overdose, I presume?”

 

Will takes a deep, gasping lungful of air as his surroundings surge into focus.

 

“T-that’s…” Will sputters at him hoarsely and coughs uncontrollably for a few painfully agonizing seconds. Then, after he scrambles to his feet to the opposite side of the room and races to put as much distance between them as possible, he places his hands against his battered throat in an effort to relieve the burning discomfort of being assaulted, _and violated_ , before he rasps out incredulously, “That’s none of your business. I - wait a minute, you can’t _smell me_ , so your first reaction is to strangle me!? That’s, actually, no, that’s not surprising. It is _you_ , after all.”

 

“I was merely attempting to stimulate the natural production of pheromones by means of an induced state of stress,” Lecter says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Will has gravely insulted him by assuming otherwise, he then rises neatly and stalks over to his decorative desk to intently observe his own drawings. “As to your previous statement, it _is_ my business. If we are put here to follow the natural order of things. _‘And let there be no secrets between us, dearly bonded, to guide and to cherish, in sickness and in health_ ’. I must say, it’s a good thing you’ve been taken off those dreadful things. Have you experienced any headaches? Loss of time? Increased irritability, perhaps?”

 

_Is he seriously quoting bonding rites?_

 

“ _What_ ?” Will scoffs in disbelief and his face scrunches up in disgust. “We aren’t bonded.” _Yet._ With or without his gift of perception, it’s easy to spot the vague underlying suggestion of a threat behind Lecter’s choice of words and Will really doesn’t like where this is headed.

 

Will scans the room warily and presses his back flush against the plexiglass wall, he’ll need to survey the layout for a sufficient route of escape, in the event that Lecter might fancy another lunge at his throat and this time succeed with whatever twisted plan he's concocted. The room itself is quite spacious compared to the cells on the upper floors, but severely lacking in terms of cover or a means of self-defense and it's far too open, he feels like nothing more than a sitting duck in here. There’s the desk at the center of the room where Lecter has taken to self-appraising his own artworks, walls lined from top to bottom with bookshelves filled to the brim, a faux fireplace ( _what is the point of this?_ ), a divider sectioning off what Will assumes are Lecter’s very own special, private plumbing facilities, and a _single_ Queen sized bed propped up against the far wall. The thought of being forced to share a bed with the man, doing god knows what, while Chilton is jacking himself off on the other side of the cameras makes him want to vomit.

 

_Maybe a makeshift noose with the bedsheets wouldn’t be the worst way to go._

 

And, _goddammit_ , if he has to hear another word out of some entitled, self-righteous Alpha ( _or Alpha wannabe_ ) presuming to know his own body better than _him_ , the Omega, he’s going to scream, either that or rip someone's throat out. As if the ban on high-grade suppressants isn’t just a way for Alphas to ensure their oppression and encourage codependency; it’s infuriating.

 

Will mutters harshly under his breath and throws his hands up in exasperation. “Why is everyone suddenly an expert in Omegan health?”

 

Lecter replies mildly, without skipping a beat, “A prerequisite. I studied it for a great deal of time back during my residency days at Johns Hopkins.”

 

Will glowers at his awful pair of shoes ( _pink canvas, oh, he’s definitely going to kill Chilton at the next possible opportunity_ ). “Oh. Of course you did.” _Of fucking course_. Trapped in a cage with a monster who is overflowing with the knowledge of every single flaw and weakness his body possesses and reduced to the sum of his body parts by a sham ‘Omegan specialist’. Will’s no stranger to being dogged by misfortune every step of his miserable life, but this is ridiculously unlucky; his day keeps getting progressively worse.

 

Lecter averts his attention from his drawings and back to Will huddled against the glass barrier. “You appear to have some difficulty with eye contact. That does seem to be the case with the much younger generation of Omegas - society tells them to never look an Alpha in the eyes, lest they draw unwanted attention to themselves. I find that to be rather backward thinking, don’t you? Tell me, do you resent being what you are? Society can be especially unkind to those who refuse to adhere to the written rules.”

 

“It’s not - it has _nothing_ to do with that.” Will hisses and crosses his arms in an overly defensive manner. It’s clear what Lecter is digging at, male Omegas are expected from birth to fit a certain feminine ideal, an idea he’s wholeheartedly rejected his entire life and he's acutely aware of Lecter’s propensity for springing conversational traps and getting into people’s heads - he’s read _all_ the files. There’s no way in hell he’s going to divulge the _true_ reason for his aversion to eye contact. The sooner he ends this conversation, the better. “ _Look_ , I’ve had one spectacularly shitty day. I’m not in the mood for your little mind games, Lecter.”

 

Lecter smiles sinisterly and crosses over to the edge of the desk, simultaneously lessening the distance between them and Will’s hopes of escape. “Seeing as you already know my name, it’s only polite that you return the courtesy.”

 

“ _Go to hell_.”

 

The only feasible design he’s conceived to wriggle himself out of this one, or at least hold off on the inevitable, is if he can somehow manipulate Chilton into letting him leave the room, even if that means having to suck it up and appeal to his sick vanity. Will snaps his head up to the ceiling and begins to shout a bit frantically, “Chilton! I know you’re there! Come down here so we can talk!”

 

The change in Lecter’s aura becomes glaringly obvious as he pins Will down in a hard, calculating stare and begins to deliberately pace back and forth, like the starved, restless animal that he is. It’s the calm before the storm and Will isn’t naive, no matter how frequently, or to what painstaking lengths he might seek to repress his true nature, his brain is still biologically wired to recognize the warning signs of an Alpha gearing up for a chase, and there is only one end goal to the long-held tradition of the chase: to own and posses. The Omegan fight or flight response in Will goes absolutely haywire at this and his muscles tense in preparation for a hasty retreat as he braces himself against the wall. If Lecter’s plans weren't crystal clear to Will before, they most certainly are now. From the very beginning, Lecter’s intentions were never to kill him, _no_ , he’s had a much more nefarious scheme in mind.

 

The mask frays away at the edges and permits Will a true glimpse of the darkness tucked away behind Lecter’s impeccable facade of cold, detached charm. “Dr. Chilton,” he drawls, never once taking his eyes off of Will. “How very generous of you.”

 

Oh.

 

_Oh_ . _He knows_.

 

The realization nearly floors him.

 

“ _Chilton_ ! You’re making a huge mistake here!” Will pleads urgently, looking wide-eyed from Lecter to the ceiling, but the only form of response comes in the swarm of tiny red recording lights silently blinking back at him. At the next noticeable shift of movement from Lecter, Will’s palms break out in a panicked sweat and his heart leaps once, then hammers out of his chest in a frenzy, his flight response promptly spurring him into action.  “No - _don’t_!”

 

_No, no, no._ He absolutely refuses to let himself be marked and tainted by a psychopath of Lecter’s ilk, Will can’t even begin to imagine what agonizing misery will await with his brand of empathy if he were to be forcefully bonded, _stripped of his free will_ , but with the number of times he’s inadvertently imprinted on the minds of deranged Alphas, _Lecter included_ , by simply stepping foot into a crime scene and has had to endlessly suffer through the physical consequences of their actions, he has a pretty good idea.

 

Lecter takes a long, determined stride toward him and Will executes a mad dash for the opposite corner of the room, he dodges swiftly beyond his reach in the very nick of time and sprints around the desk with Lecter hot on his heels. Hoping to hinder the oncoming advance, even if it’s only briefly, Will swings around and without any hesitation, shoves the desk forward with all his might, the wooden legs skidding sharp and grating across the floor, allowing it to recklessly crash into the side of Lecter’s hip. Lecter lets loose a guttural growl and knocks it aside, flipping it over, like its weight is equivalent to cardboard, effectively rendering it useless, while his sheets of drawings sail into the air around them and flutter to the floor in a scattered heap.

 

Will yelps and makes another break for it, and just as he’s about to retreat behind the partitioned off section of the room, his foot catches on one of the straps of the anti-bite mask. _Fuck!_ Will lurches forward awkwardly to his doom with a strangled cry, giving Lecter sufficient enough of an opening to close the distance between them, this time successfully sweeping him up from behind in a practiced chokehold, where he then lifts Will straight off the heels of his feet and maneuvers him into a fixed position against his broad chest. The rich, heady pheromones of an Alpha high on the rush of a victorious chase radiates off of Lecter in a thick, smothering wave, it penetrates the air around them and invades Will’s delicate nose, stirring the flush of reciprocating Omegan hormones that crawls to his burning cheeks.

 

_This can’t be happening to me._

 

“Were you really that foolish as to think I didn’t know? Or perhaps you take me for a fool.” Lecter tightens his grip around him and leans in, warm breath tickling against Will’s hypersensitive nape. “I know _all_ about you, _dear boy._ The moment I inhaled that unfortunate chemical with the bright yellow label on it. _Hard to miss_. Agent Crawford and Ms. Bloom were saturated in it, despite their best efforts to conceal your identity - I was saddened to hear that you couldn’t make it to my trial, Special Agent Will Graham.”

 

Lecter noses along his pulse and sighs, a sound that shoots straight down Will’s back and to the curve of his spine. Even with years of police training under his belt, he’s no match for Lecter’s experience in incapacitating his victims. Will whimpers and uselessly kicks his feet, pushing at Lecter’s jaw with the right palm of his hand and desperate to preserve his final thread of dignity, he gives off a low warning sound from within his throat. Lecter growls huskily in response and snatches up Will’s nape between his predator’s jaw, taking a dull nip, conveying a warning of his own and thus asserting his rightful dominance over him. Will instinctively jerks his hips and goes soft against him, the warmth of arousal pooling downward, making his hole throb in hot, aching want as a thick gathering of slick begins to trickle out of him, dampening the crotch of his underwear in a filthy, sticky mess. Will struggles to contain it, but ultimately knows that in its own irrational way, his body is acting out to protect him using the manipulation of his pheromones as a means to subdue an Alpha threat.

 

Lecter hums and speaks directly against his heated skin. “I wonder, are you aware that your scent is beginning to grow stronger, dear William? The distinct smell of arousal. At its current stage, I would describe it as being a sort of sickly sweet aroma. Does being in this position excite you?” Will squeezes his eyes shut in mortified horror, praying to wake up at any moment to the comfortable darkness of his room, while the distressed purr of an Omega, used specially for times of high stress and to further disarm a perceived threat, rumbles noisily in his chest.

 

“I’d love to have a taste, if you don’t mind.”

 

Lecter rips Will’s head forward by his mess of curls and sinks his sharp teeth into the clear, open expanse of his unclaimed nape while the buzzer sounds off in the distance once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did he bond Will? Wellll, the answer is yes and no. You'll see why. *ruins the suspense*  
> PS: Anyone interested in beta reading this mess? It's getting way longer than I expected (and if it's not obvious I struggle with writing Hannibal's parts). Let me know in comments or something, I don't bite!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it! Okay, so it’s a miracle this even made it out within the week since the majority of it was spent battling with my severe insomnia rather than actually writing. If anything is off, I blame the lack of sleep. We are going into unmarked territory from here on out. I had the basic outline, but uh that was more of an excuse for fucked up porn *nervous laughter* and now there’s this whole plot. I have no idea what I’m doing, but we’ll see where it goes. ((Shh, what do you mean this chapter is just an excuse for me to stop awkwardly typing Lecter.))
> 
> Enjoy?

CH5

 

“… _stop_!”

 

The first sharp pressure of Lecter’s teeth sinking into his flesh, the darkness that despoils him from the inside out and seeps through each crevice of his being, creates a broken dam of bonding hormones that comes relentlessly crashing over him. The searing hot pain brings tears to the corner of his eyes before the icy wave of pleasure drowns him. It’s the best and worst sensation Will’s ever felt in his entire life. He squirms violently in Lecter’s ( _no, no, Hannibal, Hannibal_ ) firm hold and mewls in a desperate high-pitched tone, the noise only a bonded Omega could make, he’s so engulfed by the swell of bubbling emotions rising to the surface, the feeling of _finally being claimed_ , that Will doesn’t even notice when he begins to press his hips back into the man’s crotch and grind against him wantonly, his pants practically soaked in slick. The buzzer is nothing but a low background hum, the swirling red lights above them are meaningless to him in this instant, overshadowed by his worst fears imagined come true all in the span of a single day and the burning shame of intense arousal.

 

Hannibal exhales harshly through his nose and loosens some of his crushing grip as gravity takes hold of them, but remains securely clamped down on Will’s nape, it’s clear that he’s savoring the moment by the hot, wet swipes of his tongue, _tasting him,_ lapping up the delicious combination of blood and the sweet secretions of his hormones. _And how long has he waited for this?_ To sink his jaws into the crafty Omega who managed to strip away his freedom right from underneath his very feet and repay the favor in kind.

 

It’s reassuring _almost_ , knowing that even someone who is as measured and controlled as Hannibal is not immune to his own set of deeply ingrained biological responses, judging by the hard outline of his _huge_ cock jutting into Will’s backside and, _fuck_ , _fuck yes_ , if he positions his hips just right he might be able to - _right there_ ! Will groans when Hannibal’s thick, Alpha cock teases the damp mound of his opening through the thinly layered material of his clothing. The most Will’s ever had inside of him are his own fingers, being raised in the hard south and through a strict upbringing, he’s never been allowed access to all the fancy knotting toys that every Omega raves about using and even long after leaving his youth behind, the shame that’s been so severely instilled still lingers heavily in him to this day. The thought of taking something _that big_ , even if his body is designed for it, seems impossible _(impossibly hot)_. Will bites his lip and reaches back with one hand to cradle Hannibal’s head against him, locking his fingers into those silky strands of dark blonde. Hannibal stills at his touch and through their newly formed bond, Will can feel the muted disbelief reflecting onto him before being wrangled back into cool neutrality.

 

Chilton's disgustingly pleased voice that drifts over from the opposite end of the cell is like somebody dumping an oversized bucket of ice cold water over his head. “Looks like you're _enjoying_ yourself, Will. Sorry to interrupt the fun, you two, but there is a chain of protocol we must follow in this event.”

 

Will's mind reels from the shock and his body goes rigid in Hannibal’s overbearingly tight grasp, as the man wheels him possessively out from Chilton’s view with a dark growl.

 

How could he let himself become befuddled by his own hormones so _easily_ ? This isn’t one of those cheap, trashy 50c paperback Omega/Alpha romance novels you find in the clearance bin. Sure, the act of being forcefully bonded and defiled by a psychopath was a lot less painful of an experience than he was anticipating, admittedly it was _slightly pleasurable (he’ll take that one to the grave)_ , but that's no excuse for such shameless behavior. Forced bondings are meant to be excruciatingly agonizing for the victims, nowhere near _pleasurable_ , if anything, this proves exactly what Will and every other person has suspected about him all along, that there is clearly something horribly wrong with his head, or, or ... _what if Chilton is -_

 

_No, stop. Stop right there_.

 

Will shudders in disgust at the feeling of Hannibal’s hot arousal nestled between them and the slick coating his thighs.

 

Regardless of how much slack the media gives him for his crimes ( _poor, misguided Alpha_ ), Hannibal Lecter is a deranged _serial killer, who kills and eats people,_ the type of person that Will has spent his entire career putting away behind bars, need he remind himself. This is worse than any nightmare imaginable and he would know, it’s a fucking disaster, an honest to god disaster. He’ll be miserably trapped by Hannibal’s side until one of them dies, there’s no other possible way to break a pair bond. _How could this happen?_ Will’s modest dreams of one day settling down with a loving beta and starting a family, hell, maybe even adopting, have been completely flushed down the drain. Instead, he’s been hitched to the devil _and_ -

 

_The agents standing behind the yellow tape burst into laughter. ‘Oh. Will Graham. Isn’t that the psycho lover? I heard he keeps a shrine to the Chesapeake Ripper in his bedroom. Bet he wishes he was a slutty little Omega so that The Ripper could bend him over and bond him. He already acts like one, doesn’t he?’_

 

\- and, no, he will not devolve into a whimpering, blubbering mess in front of Chilton nor Hannibal, he’s already stooped this low.

 

_Let’s not forget. There is a very precise way to break the bond, after all._

 

“Get _off_ of me!” Will rips his hand away from Hannibal as if being burned and flat out elbows him in the gut, an action that is surprisingly a lot harder to perform with the spike of oxytocin clouding his judgment. Hannibal stumbles back, unexpectedly taken off guard by the force, and dislodges his teeth from Will’s prickling nape as his mouth comes away stained with blood. ( _Very fitting_.) Will wriggles out of his arms when the door to the cell flies open and Chilton’s cronies come bustling in with - _are those_ _tasers_ , it only takes him one glimpse at their extensive assortment of restraints before Will flings himself to the floor at Hannibal’s feet, pride be damned, who knows what new _unlucky_ surprises Chilton has in store for him this time. Gladly indulging the mounting Omegan instinct to hide, he hurriedly crawls away on both of his hands and feet to the side of the Queen bed and scurries under it, safely beyond their reach.

 

_No more surprises. Please, no more._

 

“Against the wall, _now_ , Lecter!” One of the orderlies brandishes his taser at Lecter, while two of the others move hastily to restrain him in a pale straightjacket and an anti-bite mask of his own. Will can more or less make out the racket by the movements of their feet and the flare of unchecked murderous intent coming from Hannibal’s side of the bond. He cradles his nape in both hands, clenches his jaw in revulsion and painfully digs his claws into his permanently destroyed flesh, if only he could rip it out, tear out the mark that Hannibal has sullied him with. _Get out of my head, get out of my head._ “Somebody grab the damn Omega - Matthew!”

 

“Already on it,” says Matthew, as he lowers to his knees in front of the bed and peeks under with a sharp ( _too sharp, my, what sharp teeth you have_ ) grin at Will’s huddled form, waving the taser from side to side at him threateningly. “Come on out, little birdie.”

 

Will growls at him and furiously kicks away his outstretched arm.

 

Matthew sighs and rolls his eyes. “C’mon Lecter, say the magic words so we can get this over with. I don’t want to have to drag him out.” He aims the weapon and discharges a warning shot off to the side of Will’s head with a thunderous bang, the impact of the electrical crackle echoes throughout the room so powerfully that Will involuntarily recoils from it with a shallow gasp, bracing his bloody fingers against the floor.

 

Hannibal’s voice is gruff with vexation and the surge of hormones coursing in his veins, when he speaks in a muffled tone from beneath the mask, “The sooner the better. _Come here, William_.”

 

_And there it is_ , the moment he’s been dreading from the very start of this hellish ordeal, the first instance of Hannibal casually exploiting his newfound power over him: his Alpha voice. Bonded Alphas are the only individuals that are able to harness its abusive authority over Omegas and it’s generally considered taboo to use it on anyone other than your own mate. _Wait. Has that stopped Jack?_ Whether or not Jack does it by mistake or deliberately, the later would imply that he’s been perfectly aware of his gender this entire time and has never deemed it important enough to mention. Not that he has time to dwell on that tiny revelation right now, not when his bloodied nape begins to tingle uncomfortably and the sudden urge to obey Hannibal’s command comes down on him like a swift punch to the gut. Before he’s even blinked he’s already half-way out from under the bed and Matthew is forcefully dragging him by the arms the rest of the way.

 

“There, now was that so hard?” says Matthew, as he yanks him up to his feet, while he and another orderly hold Will in place to curiously inspect the back of his neck. Matthew lets out a low whistle and smirks down at him in glee. “That’s _deep_ , you sure made nice work out of this one, Doctor. You know, you should consider yourself lucky, bitch. Out of the other 20 or so subjects we’ve thrown his way, you’re the only one he’s actually bothered to _tie the knot_ with. Hah. I’ll bet that makes you nice and wet, _sweetheart_.”

 

Will freezes in place when Matthew presses himself against his back, thrusts the taser square against his chest, then subtly shifts closer to his neck and takes a sniff at him, wrinkling his nose in disgust; a reaction that Will files away for future dissection. He can’t quite put his finger on why it is that Matthew unnerves him so much, but it’s not simply his crass attitude toward him either, there’s _more_ to it than that and right now, he’s in no position to comfortably step away to examine any of the potential designs. Not when he’s being manhandled and Hannibal is busy glaring daggers at them from across the room, painted red with his blood. (I _s that a hint of jealousy I detect?)_ Interesting. Another notion for him to file away for later.

 

Will mentally drifts, he stares off blankly while the orderlies make a sideshow of him, and counts down from 1 to 3 in reverse order. _3\. Matthew, 2. Chilton, 1. Hannibal._ That is the order in which he will exact his revenge, starting first with Hannibal. 1 and 2 are interchangeable, it all depends on the circumstances at play. Truth be told, his contempt for Chilton is a _bright_ , burning beacon, it will always outshine anything else on the horizon and if it wasn’t for him he’d never be in this situation to begin with. _Let me amend that._ _3\. Matthew, 2. Hannibal, 1. Chilton._ Three fish and one baited hook, he’s always been a good fisherman, and wouldn’t it be interesting if he could make the three of them bite at once? Or he _could_ lure the biggest fish of them all straight into the line of sight of the smaller ones, sit back, and watch the carnage that would ensue. Chilton is speaking unimportant nonsense again, but the dull drone of his voice is heavily drowned out by the vengeful images welcomingly floating through his head.

 

The abrupt open-handed slap to his face by one of the orderlies is a bitter, stinging shock to his system.  

 

Chilton lets out an exaggerated exhale and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now, now. That wasn’t necessary. We don’t want to further distress his delicate mental state, not when there’s a chance that it might inadvertently trigger Hannibal’s rut now that a bond between them has been established. And, trust me, you do not want to imagine what a disaster that would be to contain.”

 

Scrap that, this whole god damn place is going down, along with every rotten person in it. Will blinks away the rage boiling inside of him and grits his teeth, before calmly replying, “Could you repeat that?”

 

Chilton taps his clipboard with a pen and studies Will curiously from the other side glass, the coward. He’d gladly throw Will to the wolves but wouldn’t risk the blood on his shiny shoes. “I asked how you were feeling?”

 

Will gives him a flat, venomous stare. “Debased and degraded. How am I supposed to _feel, Dr. Chilton_?”

 

“That’s not what it looked like to me, Will. You wanted to talk, here I am, but I need you to be completely honest with me. I want to remind you that this is for your own good. I’m here to help you.” Will bristles at Chilton’s patronizing words and his aggravatingly false expression of sympathy which makes him want to shed his morality at his feet like the ridiculous getup that he’s wearing, rip the man’s face off, and feed it to Hannibal. ( _Oh, god_ . _Get out of my head.)_

 

_Sure you are. “I'm sorry._ Uh, since when did the act of public humiliation constitute the lending of a helping hand? I must have missed the memo.” Trembling with scarcely suppressed rage, Will pointedly evades Chilton’s attempt at goading a response out of him and risks a hesitant glance toward Hannibal, he’s been eerily quiet throughout this entire fiasco, the bond seemingly flatlined sometime after Matthew and the other orderly began shoving him around for the pure fun of it.

 

_What’s going on in that head of yours, Doctor?_

 

When their eyes meet for the second time that day it feels as if he’s being sucked into a dark, fathomless void and devoured whole, Will struggles to break eye contact for a moment and tensely looks to his feet, his nape overwhelmingly hot and prickling. He’s fastened in place for public ridiculing, covered in both slick and blood, being tossed around like a child’s plaything, while Hannibal Lecter of all people is attempting to incinerate him on the spot by the power of his gaze alone ( _how the hell did he wind up here?_ ); however, this time, Will’s fit of hysterics is roughly swallowed down.

 

It occurs to him, that Hannibal receives the full body restraint special with four heavily decked out orderlies and all he gets are two lax, carefree goons? They’re purposefully underestimating him because he’s an _Omega, weak and frail little submissive Omega_ , unfortunately, that striking realization is the last and final straw for him _. (Oh, well. Their mistake.)_ Will shoots Chilton a feral smile, displaying the sharp points of his fangs, takes a deep, steadying breath and at the next exhale, he slams the back of his head straight into Matthew’s nose with a sickening crunch, breaks free and tackles the other orderly with a fierce snarl before pummeling his fists into his face. The stun guns are nothing but a ruse, they wouldn’t dare damage Chilton’s prized goods and Will basks in the knowledge that he’s successfully called their bluff when Chilton shouts at the remaining orderlies to lower their weapons.

 

Will slams the orderly’s wrist against the floor, wrestles the stun gun away from his fingers and hops to a defensive stance, before stomping his foot down on the man’s hand with a ferocious grunt, not once, but twice, for good measure. _Try putting another hand on me again, asshole._ Panting with the physical exertion, he brandishes the taser wild-eyed and frantically at the remaining four men crowded around Hannibal. The door to their cell is gaping wide open, realistically he probably wouldn’t get too far, considering the number of security locks he’s met with on the way in, but the prospect of freedom is very tempting. To hell with it, he’ll take his chances. _How stupid is Chilton, anyway?_ Will takes one tentative step toward the door, two, three, four, five, the orderlies fan out and away from him in white, receding waves.

 

Even a brief taste of fleeting freedom is better than rolling over and accepting his fate. Will stops inches away from Hannibal, stares vacantly at the stark white straps that are snuggly binding the man’s arms over his chest, and unconsciously grants him an offering of his nape. The bond flares awake and Will’s Omegan side preens with the intense flood of pleasure that arises from having pleased his Alpha. ( _N-no. That’s not right.)_ He blinks, furrows his brow, and trails his gaze to Hannibal’s forehead, when did he -? Matthews groans of pain in the background and his co-workers mocking laughter drift over him in a frigid blast of wind. The door, _the door was right there_ , Will whips his head to the open hallway in bewilderment, the exact second one of Chilton’s men slams it shut with a simple press of a button and the lock shutters into place with the same force of his crushing dread.

 

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle in a devilish delight behind the mask and with a bemused huff of a chuckle, he says, “You follow orders so well, don’t you, darling boy? Admittedly, I am rather astonished by the remarkably off-road manner of a route you took to arrive at your destination, but pleased by your show of effort. I would applaud you, but unfortunately, I’m really in no position to do so. Today is simply full of surprises, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Will drops the taser with an echoing clatter and gapes in horror at him.

 

‘ _Come here, William.’_

 

_(Come here, William.)_

 

Matthew takes a furious, bruising hold of Will’s neck, slips the collar around him and locks it into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t get too comfy with the bond. *coughs* New tags. (And no there’s no character death in this, don’t worry.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait. I, uhm, ran into the worst writer's block.  
> OH AND A BIG THANK YOU TO Prose_By_Rose for taking the time to beta read this chapter. ❤️❤️❤️ Please go check out their amazing fic!
> 
> (Any other mistakes are 100% my own fault.)

CH6

 

_Alone at last with the monster._

 

That is exactly how Will finds himself hunkered down beneath the bed, _yet again_ , hypervigilant of every turn and shift of movement from Hannibal’s wandering feet, because despite his extreme reluctance, he’s succumbed to his flighty, Omegan cave-dwelling nesting habits. Taking into consideration today’s soul-crushing chain of events, who could honestly blame him for resorting to the most base of his instincts. It’s been an hour of this mental torture, an hour since Chilton stood opposite of them behind the safety of his glass shield, interrogating him over whether or not a pair bond with a _psychopath_ has magically ‘ _cured_ ’ him of whatever number of baseless ailments he’s supposedly afflicted with, during which his lackeys made a complete mockery out of him. It’s hard to keep track of all the garbage Chilton spews, when the initial sound of his weaselly voice has Will’s brain immediately tapping out of the conversation. He’s had plenty of time drifting between equal states of boredom and agitation within the blessed cover of darkness to rack his brain, but he still cannot grasp the logic behind Chilton’s reasoning for believing that any of this would be a sound idea.

 

Will’s final conclusion:

 

_There’s not an ounce of logic to this; Chilton is quite simply an idiot._

 

Will scratches at the new matching accessory wound unbearably snug around his neck and gives it a hateful, discomfiting tug. It’s a pink collar with the symbol of his status affixed to it, as if semi-permanently tarnishing his skin wasn’t proof enough of his gender, neither the livid, glaring bite mark decorating the back of his nape. Outwardly, it resembles a plain, traditional claiming collar commonly worn by bonded Omegas, but Matthew has helpfully assured him that, while it is not elegantly comprised of dazzling, crystal rhinestones ( _a regrettably gaudy Omegan trend that’s steadily on the rise_ ) this one comes fully equipped with an _especially_ _lovely_ shock mechanism; he’s even been so kind enough to demonstrate it for him, free of charge.

 

Hannibal begins to pace in front of the bed and Will is convinced that his muscles might actually burst if he tenses them any harder, the room must be suffocatingly saturated in Omegan distress pheromones at this point. How Hannibal remains effortlessly unaffected by his _mate’s_ outpouring of tormented discomfort is formidable in itself, but is not at all surprising to Will, as the man is a textbook sadist, after all. This back and forth dance has been going on for a while now, it’s blindingly obvious to Will that this is nothing but an amusing game to Hannibal, meant to psych him out and find his breaking point. ( _Am I a fun new distraction for you? A shiny new wind up toy to add to your growing collection?)_ If he truly wanted him out from his designated safe zone all he’d have to do is say the words.

 

The horrifying part about that is not knowing whether or not his actions are his own or Hannibal’s reflection of emotions manifested by his Alpha voice, when the boundaries between self and other have already begun to blur through the crumbling forts of his empathy.

 

Will’s Omegan side, on the other hand, can’t get enough of Hannibal’s, _his new mate’s_ , powerful musk trailing behind him like a proud mantle displaying his superior thoroughbred status; it’s a conflicting ongoing battle between rational thought and his biology. This tiresome oscillation between wanting to curl up to the man’s scent in the form of his soft pillows and bedding, to eagerly mingle his own sweet, comforting musk into the bitter smelling fabrics, in an act of self-soothing, yet rejecting it is mentally taxing on top of everything else that has transpired. If he doesn’t find a suitable outlet for these negative emotions, without the help of his suppressants, he’s liable to go into a stress-induced heat and wouldn't that be his luck, an additional _4-12 hours of extended hell_ , leaving him a mindless slave to his own animal impulses.

 

Will tries desperately to ignore the intrusive, explicitly erotic images of Hannibal in the midst of a heat frenzied rut, wrestling his willing body into position and pressing the warm weight of his body on top of him, enveloping him in that mouth watering scent of his, as he stretches his needy hole wide open for the first time with his _impressive_ cock, savagely fucking him into the—

 

 _STOP_.

 

Will mentally screams and slams his forehead into the ground to drown out his chaotic train of deeply unsavory thoughts.

 

_Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. That’s, uh, that’s enough of that, please._

 

He rolls his throbbing temples across the refreshingly cool floor and trembles as another feverish tremor wracks his body, now this right here is another problem— a huge, _huge_ problem— to add onto his seemingly never-ending list: he’s having a large amount of difficulty differentiating the symptoms of a premature heat— prompted by the unrelenting torrent of stress— to his body’s natural detoxification of the hormone suppressants sitting at the back of his medicine cabinet. Even a child has the common sense to know that you never, ever stop a round of suppressants cold turkey, unless you want to wind up in the hospital with severe drug withdrawal.

 

_What have I ever done to Chilton to deserve this sort of treatment?_

 

Like he’s analyzing a crime scene, Will solemnly examines each facet of his past encounter with Chilton, it’s not like he has anything better to do other than stare at Hannibal’s laceless shoes while he anxiously commences in Omegan self-grooming behavior by licking off the traces of dried blood from his fingers and instinctively sets out to scent mark his territory with languid, unsteady drags of his hands to the rigid underside of the bed. He predictably comes up blank; Jack had carried on most of the talking, as per usual, the most he muttered was a short greeting. And, _okay_ , granted, he may have been somewhat transparent in his disdain for the man, accompanied by the marked objection to his bogus theory on the supposed motives of Omegan serial killers, but why would a minor disagreement lead to Chilton happily subjecting him to inhuman treatment?

 

 _C’mon, Graham._ He’s preoccupied with peering into all the wrong boxes. Chilton’s personal feelings on Omegas aside ( _because, that would take forever, there’s a whole lot to say on this subject_ ), the main issue at hand is how exactly did he manage to wind up here, in Hannibal Lecter’s den of horrors, and when? In comparison to Alphas where the single requirement is a definitive red checkmark next to homicidal tendencies, as an Omega, there’s a wide span of offenses that can land you a spot at OmegaPoint and this could range anywhere from petty crimes to murder. But his repeated attempts at recalling the day’s previous events are fruitless and only result in aggravating his already pounding head.

 

 _What the hell could I have possibly done to earn a first-class seat next to Hannibal? (Something bad, something … like_ murder _?)_

 

_Ah._

 

_Oh God. It was murder, wasn't it?_

 

There’s overwhelming evidence to support this theory; circumstantial, but solid enough for his empathy to fill in the gaps: Chilton’s exaggerated reaction to his display of teeth, the sole purpose for the bite mask, it’s even visible in his words, _‘they’re rather perfect for each other’_ , why else would he say that? There’s no better explanation other than, _than what?_ Him finally snapping beneath the stress of his job, entering a fugue state and committing atrocities due to a simple, accidental miscalculation in his recommended dosage of suppressants ( _‘Loss of memory is one of the most common side effects of hormone suppressants.’_ )? Is that what this is about? _Fuck_.

 

As they say, ignorance is bliss, but unfortunately for Will, he’s never had that particular luxury, thanks to his scarily keen perception.

 

A pitiful whine slips from Will’s lips as his gut lurches violently and his surroundings begin to tilt precariously, while he places his weak, sweaty palms against his cheeks and splays his fingers over his eyes, the despondency descending over him in a cloud of thick smog. ( _I killed someone, I killed someone? I killed someone. I’m supposed to be saving lives and I - there’s a very high chance I did the exact opposite.)_ The entire timeline of Hannibal’s murders relentlessly plays behind his shut eyes like a twisted, broken slideshow on repeat, as their one sided bond pierces its way from the inside out, through the clammy skin of his back in the shape of two grotesque horns the color of a pitch-black sky at midnight.

 

_Ripping and tearing in self-preservation._

 

There’s a pause in Hannibal’s rhythmic dance of intimidation tactics, as he drifts soundlessly to stand at the edge of the bed. “Oh, _William_ . If it isn’t my own personal little monster lurking within the deceitful shadows beneath my bed. _Why don’t you come on out?_ ” He kneels down, one hand braced on the top side of the mattress, and peers expectantly at Will’s quivering form. “You reek of nothing but doom and gloom, my dear. While the redolence does suit you, I find it to be a touch offensive. How long did you intend to stay under there? Of course, there’s no rush, desirous as I am to have this conversation, we have all the time in the world. Would you rather we speak as we are now or would you prefer to come out from there?”

 

Will startles at the sudden proximity of Hannibal’s lilting voice, as he drops his hands away from his weary blue eyes and scoots further against the wall, where he steels himself for the inevitable. The inky hallucination wavers and fades, as the horns dissipate at the sight of their originator, but the sickly feeling still remains a heavy, corruptive weight on his back. “Wh - _Me_ ? I don’t know. Ever consider the overwhelming plausibility of the true monster in this scenario being, uh, _you_?”

 

He can already feel the territorial hostility rising in his chest at having an Alpha, Hannibal, invading the comfort of his poor excuse for a nest when he tacks on a short, “Here is fine.” ( _Away from prying eyes and little, red blinking lights.)_

 

“Away from prying eyes?” says Hannibal punctually, as if directly addressing his thoughts and _why not?_ The man exudes an otherworldly aura, only he could make telepathy seem so natural. ( _Lucky coincidence, nothing more.)_ Hannibal offers him a small twitch at the corner of his lips, before continuing, “Of course. People are quick to cast others as monsters or deviants of society, in an unmistakably desperate attempt to justify their own offensive behavior, so that they may seem less monstrous themselves. Is that what you are trying to suggest, _dear boy?_ ”

 

Will furrows his brow in agitation and swallows uncomfortably. “Please don’t call me that.”

 

Either he is horribly misinterpreting him or Hannibal is cleverly seizing the opportunity to flip their conversation on its side to take a long-winded jab at Chilton, but he’s betting his chips toward the later. As different as they may be, Hannibal has all the reason to hate Chilton just as much as he does, seeing as they’re both being kept as caged guinea pigs under the burning lens of an overgrown child’s microscope. ( _I can definitely work this angle to my advantage._ ) _Fine_ . If Hannibal wants to play his twisted mind games with him, he’ll _play_ , what else does he have to lose? Not much, his freedom and free-will are already off the table.

 

With a faint, discerning raise of his eyebrow, Will follows up with, “And, careful, _Doctor_ . _Prying eyes_ and prying ears, remember?”

 

Hannibal lowers himself onto his stomach, bringing him down to Will’s level and allows an uncertain quiet to wash over them, before he glides his open palm across the floor, into the safe shadows of his sanctuary, contaminating it with his irresistible scent along the way like dark reaching tendrils. “And if you’re not the monster crawling within the advantageous secrecy of darkness, what does that make you, William?”

 

Will snorts and narrows his eyes at the unwelcome intrusion, but consciously stifles his growl by biting down on the inside of his cheek. It’s best not to arouse Hannibal’s inherent Alphan aggression and risk creating another disturbing scene for Chilton to casually kick his feet back to, he’ll need to tread carefully from here on out. “ _Fragile_ , is the genuine consensus around here.”

 

Will flits his hardened gaze to the choppy, loose locks of hair delicately teasing the line of the man’s brow bone. ( _Guess he’s not allowed any more of those fancy grooming products he’s so fond of._ ) He’ll admit that Hannibal looks much softer this way, with his cheek pressed against the floor in a reflection of his own position and far more approachable than his tabloid debut would lead people to believe, that is, if the wine-red coloration of his irises didn’t betray his true nature. Will resists the urge to roll his eyes; it’ll take a hell of a lot more than a few Omegan calming gestures to fool him, because that’s precisely what Hannibal is aiming for by lowering himself and giving them the illusion of equal ground. _Nice try._

 

“You won’t kill me, and judging by the massive chunk you took out of my neck, you won’t spare me, either. My burning question is, what do you see, Doctor? _Genuinely_ .” Will retorts, aggressively skirting Hannibal’s insistent desire to establish proper eye contact between them. ( _Does it matter? He’s already in your head._ )

 

He gets an eyeful of Hannibal’s sharp predator teeth when his lips spread into a wide, disarming smile. “The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”

 

_What?_

 

Will opens his mouth briefly, then shuts it tight in bafflement. That was not what he was expecting, and Hannibal is apparently finished being generous with him since he hardly permits him the time to unravel the meaning of his statement or utter an appropriate comeback when their bond rings to life in a blaring alarm. An almost imperceptible shadow of impending violence crosses over the man’s features as he purposely slides his roaming hand in the general direction of Will’s collared neck. Will bristles in apprehension before the pent up hostility inside of him boils over as he spits out a harsh warning hiss with the same territorial ferociousness of a feral cat and strikes out with his claws at Hannibal’s hand; he’s starting to grow impatient with this mental tug of war. The adverse side effects of his suppressant withdrawal are getting worse and worse by each passing minute, bolstered by the new round of odorous distress pheromones he's secreting, and there's a 50/50 chance he’ll soon be begging for Hannibal’s knot by the end of the day if this continues to go on.

 

“I think our conversation is over.”

 

This is clearly an enormous mistake on Will’s part, one he should have had the ability to foreseen, _really_ , as Hannibal tsks in disapproval, captures one of his tender wrists and squeezes down with deft fingers on the Omegan pressure point located near his radial artery. “Now, now. Is that any way to treat your _dearly bonded?_ Our conversation has barely begun. I’ve been patient, William, but I do think that it’s time you came out from there.”

 

With a sharp, pleasured gasp, Will shivers at the rapturous fire that travels through his veins and grits his teeth against a whine, quickly realizing what a fatal misstep he’s taken. S _o much for treading carefully_ . Something tells him no matter what, Hannibal was never planning on letting him comfortably nest this one out. Not when Hannibal’s sure to have a few _burning questions_ of his own, all involving his capture and imprisonment by a mentally unstable male Omega, and to finish whatever he’d sought to do before they were _rudely_ interrupted.

 

_This is bad._

 

*

 

It seems polite conversation has evidently been stricken off of the agenda until further notice.

 

Following the few tense seconds after Will’s reckless blunder of words, Hannibal takes a bloodthirsty lunge at him with the same intent and velocity of a venomous snake; heedless of his resoundingly shrill hiss, the man drags him out by his flailing arms from under the comforting blanket of obscurity and deposits him directly into the scorching scrutiny of fluorescents. He’s left feeling disoriented by the sudden transition, the blinding lights and starkness of their shared confines are excruciatingly agitating to him. It’s obvious that this space was not designed with the relaxation of any Omega in mind. There’s a severe lack of blues ( _a color that is meant to sooth Omegas_ ) contained within the white and gold trim decor, aside from Hannibal’s navy blue apparel, but that unsettling shade that Chilton’s picked out for him brings Will absolutely zero sense of comfort.

 

Will nauseously waits for the room to cease its violent tilt and reorient itself before he leaps to his feet to perform his counterattack. The ensuing eruption of today’s pent up aggression— including the hostile reaction to being cornered out of his own marked territory by a rival Alpha— has Will fighting back tooth and nail. Despite his rapidly increasing weakness, he struggles heatedly to fend off the lethal advances of Hannibal, who is seemingly hell-bent on delivering added injury to his already _intimately_ acquainted weak point.

 

_I’ll never get a moment’s peace in this godforsaken place, will I?_

 

Their violent, rolling scuffle of fists and claws eventually comes to a screeching halt when Hannibal roughly tosses him onto his back and straddles him to prevent him from trying to pathetically crawl his way back under the welcoming haven of his nest at the first signs of looming defeat. He’s embarrassingly sprawled out beneath Hannibal in another pool of _sickly sweet_ smelling slick and his shirt has inconveniently ridden half-way up his abdomen during the repeated battering, exposing the vulnerable plane of his smooth stomach. It’s oddly appropriate considering the circumstances, but he doesn’t want to simply be forced to roll over and show his belly. _Not like this._

 

Will grunts in rising distress, clasps his free hand tightly in the man’s disheveled, pepper blond locks as he dips his chin down in a defensive gesture and tugs hard, making one last drive of effort to strenuously redirect Hannibal’s teeth away from his neckline; the both of them equally covered in a myriad of livid bruises and stinging scratch marks. Not once during their exchange of blows does Hannibal bother to harness the uneven sway of his self-appointed powers or illustrate his abundant knowledge on how to effectively incapacitate an Omega through petty biological tricks. By doing so, he’s made it a cutting reminder to Will that, despite every cheap card at his disposal, all it takes is a meager demonstration of natural-born strength to easily and efficiently assert his dominance over a weak, flimsy Omega.

 

Hannibal calmly wrestles Will’s wrists away from his hair in a vice-like grip and slams them down on both sides of his head with a low rumble, pinning him to the ground like hopelessly writhing prey. As Hannibal now towers mightily above him as the undisputed victor, Will reluctantly stares up at him with an impenetrable dread. His lips are parted in harsh pants of breath as he watches the trails of blood beading along the series of jagged and angry claw marks decorating the man’s lightly stubbled jawline.

 

There’s no deafening alarms or ear-splitting buzzers, not even the rap of a nightstick against the glass.

 

The cameras invading Will’s peripheral vision right now are a skin-crawling reminder that the man behind them is accurately comparable to a scuttling cockroach, one that he would love nothing more than to squash for allowing these degrading incidents to continue. The reason _why_ Chilton’s men haven’t come running to his _rescue_ this time ( _not that he would exactly call it that_ ) is for the stomach-turning fact that their altercation from an outside perspective must resemble nothing more than stereotypical _play-mating_ between bond mates, albeit a more _violent_ form of it.

 

It probably doesn’t help his situation any that being vigorously subdued by an Alpha whom his body readily recognizes as _his_ , has Will sporting the most painful erection of his sad, pathetic life. Adding onto that shameful detail, is the _highly visible_ blooming red warmth of color spreading downward from his cheeks to the pale peek of skin below his shirt collar and not just from the exertion, but also from the potential onset of a mock heat; be it from the stress, his body’s last endeavor to flush out the remainder of chemicals, or Hannibal’s constant manhandling, there’s no way to tell for certain.

 

There _is_ a sick sense of satisfaction that befalls Will when he realizes that Hannibal is not faring much better himself, judging by the hard thickness that grazes his against his hip and the way the man’s rich, heady scent has heightened over the boundaries of polite interest. The metallic tinge of blood that threatens to scramble his mind to needy, submissive mush is one of its main keynotes, rather than a subtle undertone. _The distinct smell of arousal_ , as Hannibal so elegantly put it.

 

_Hannibal is definitely enjoying this._

 

Hannibal licks along the sharp edges of his canines in unconcealed ire and presses the entirety of his body weight onto him when he leans down to hover inches away from Will’s flushed, panting face. “I believe that we’ve exchanged sufficient pleasantries. With that out of the way, let’s move on to more important matters. I want you to tell me everything there is to know regarding what lies buried beneath that pretty little head of yours - I want to know exactly how you managed it and I want you to be truthful about it, William.”

 

Will clamps his eyes shut at the profound shame coiling in his stomach and the promise of Hannibal’s wrath of cruel teeth as he tries to stomp down the intense thrill of pleasure that sails straight to his throbbing slit, when the man’s warm puff of breath caresses his still parted lips.

 

_He thinks you’re pretty._

 

That singular word— _pretty_ — is like somebody tossing a lit match onto him. The dangerously familiar burning prickle springs to life at his nape and slowly begins to creep through his veins in the same way that the heat emitting from a flickering flame of a candle does before the devastating, widespread fire; it’s the definite beginnings of preheat. ( _This is very, very bad._ ) Will squirms in anguish from the embarrassing discomfort resting heavy in his underwear and the tingling waves of desire washing over him without rest, threatening to pull him under. When Hannibal makes a slight adjustment of his weight to put a halt to the wriggling motions, his erection accidentally digs searingly into the bare flesh of Will’s lower abdomen, and he immediately chokes out a cracked, eager whine as he arches his hips upward to meet him.

 

With their faces only mere inches apart, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to rise up and close the gap between them in a wet, seal of lips. Will completely drifts away to the soothing darkness of his eyelids when Hannibal starts speaking to him in that strangely arousing accent of his. The onslaught of opposing sensory input tackles his body at once as vivid images of them locked together in a hungry embrace floats in before his mind’s eye.

 

_More importantly, what kind of kisser is Hannibal Lecter?_

 

Will definitely imagines their first kiss being _sharp_ , brutal, and full of teeth; a battle of tongues mingled with the taste of blood. That’s the first impression you’d get from a monster who makes the very air around him crackle with such a dominating presence. On the other hand, if you were to take into account his exquisitely refined sensibilities, there’s also the _insanely tantalizing_ possibility of their shared kiss resembling more of a slow, seductive dance of tongues— something oozing with sensuality and reverence. Both of these likely scenarios are exceptionally appealing; until the faint sliver of rationality decides to rain down on him.

 

_That is the same mouth that’s ripped into, torn apart, and feasted on other peoples organs. Remember?_

 

That tiny _morsel_ of knowledge is enough to bring him crashing back down to reality in a bloody, banged up heap. The exact same moment that Hannibal temporarily releases one of his tender wrists and none too gently pats him on his feverish cheek a few times to _help_ draw him out of his preheat stupor. Hannibal has to realize what is happening, especially for someone with such a powerful nose. There’s nothing that gets past a thoroughbred’s superior olfactory sense; besides, _of course_ , a maximum dosage of high-grade suppressants, but the smell of arousal in the air is palpable. It legitimately makes him wonder what kind of angle Hannibal is seeking to play here, what sort of hell he plans to inflict on him when he eventually succumbs to the unavoidable. Crimes of a sexual nature have never figured into his criminal profile, but then again, the act of forcefully bonding his victims was never on that list until now. It seems that where Will is concerned, Hannibal is as unpredictable as ever; he’d even go as far as to say that through simple examination of his actions thus far, while the man has deluded himself ( _and everyone else for that matter_ ) into believing himself to be driven by some form of reason, his behavior toward Will is entirely born out of _irrationality_. It's uncharacteristically clumsy of him.

 

_Does he want to fuck me or interrogate me?_

 

Will winces at the unwelcome touch. He swallows with a loud click in the disquiet silence of their cell— apart from the sounds of their shared breathing— and presses his lips together in a tight, thin line. Tossing aside those inappropriate thoughts, he belatedly finds the strength to muster up a shaky taunt. “Or what? Are you going to _kill_ me? You’d be doing me a fucking favor.”

 

Hannibal sighs in a way that implies he beginning to grow weary of Will’s endlessly stubborn string of responses and tightens his hold with such a crushing force, it’s guaranteed to leave a great deal of discoloration in its wake. “Don’t be so crude, dear. Since we’re in the habit of being honest at this phase in our bondship, I find that to be highly unbecoming. Please _look me in the eye_ while speaking.”

 

Will’s eyes fly open at the command. His nape gives off a white-hot stab of pain, and he unwillingly snaps his gaze to meet Hannibal’s without any form of resistance. It’s as if there’s an invisible magnetic force drawing them together and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to pry himself apart. The bond in combination with direct eye contact allows him to peer past the steep walls that Hannibal has meticulously built in place around himself, giving him an unobscured view of the different shades of resentment, excitement, and intrigue he holds specifically for him. It knocks the breath right out of him in a shuddering sigh and when he tries to find his next words, it’s Hannibal’s voice that plays out in his head instead of his own.

 

“I don’t need to _look_. I see you just fine— you’ve made perfectly sure of that.”

 

Hannibal hums in consideration and torturously assesses him. “I’ve heard of your unique gift of perception, or better yet, pure empathy. You can assume anyone’s point of view - be it friends, family, _lovers_ , myself included, but killers are the ones who you fancy stepping into for a day. I find that absolutely fascinating. Care to elaborate on that?”

 

Will’s had the misfortune of wading too deep into the water as a child, he’s had first-hand experience with drowning, and right now that’s _exactly_ how he feels. Drowning in waves of desire, drowning in deep pools of red, drowning in _Hannibal_ . How Hannibal doesn’t consider himself under the same category as a killer, but rather something that vaguely exists between that and a _lover_ is downright laughable.

 

“Y-yeah, well. You wouldn’t be the f-first.” Will stammers out weakly as the burning pain increases. It’s the truth, he’s been pried apart and scrutinized by more psychiatrists in his life than he can count on both hands. It’s only natural that Hannibal has heard of him at some point in his career, and all the more after his incarceration thanks to Freddie Lound’s big mouth. He’s been quite the talk in psychiatric circles if there’s any truth to what comes out of Chilton mouth.

 

Will tries not to focus on Hannibal, but instead on one of the blurred cameras at the edge of his vision, counting down the numbers he’s already established; 3 proceeding backward to 1. There’s the rapidly dying light of hope at the back of his mind and a tiny part of him that still clings to the belief that this is only a nightmare occurring in his own damaged head. _3 - 2 - 1. 3 - 2 - 1._ It’s getting harder to think with Hannibal speaking for him in his own skull like he’s always belonged there. Not only that, it’s getting harder to focus, harder to breathe, and harder to care about _right_ or _wrong_ when he knows he’s fighting a losing battle. There’s no steady ground for morality in this place, not when the undeniable reality is that Hannibal and he are not so different.  

 

“I’ll ask you once again—”

 

“One who destroys for the sake of creating.” Will blurts, cutting him off before he can finish. The rest of the dark confession spills forth from him without pause. “You’re transforming them—  these _pigs_ . Elevating filth to works of art simply because you can. That’s what you are— you’re an artist, no, something far greater than that. _Are you religious, Doctor?_ The minute I stepped into your world, witnessed Cassie Boyle impaled on a rack of antlers as a direct taunt to the FBI, I could feel you tainting me from the inside out. Most of the time it was distant and _lonely_ , but there were brief moments when I-I felt _it_. Felt the life you had reaped slip away as if it were by my own two hands …”

 

Will gasps. “Please, I-I-need to …”

 

“ _Alpha_.”

 

Will’s breathing is ragged when he jerkily drives upward. He licks his lips and presses them to the corner of Hannibal’s marred jaw before his mouth falls open and he eagerly darts his wet tongue out in a slow-moving drag across the fresh lines of oozing cuts. A high, happy noise emits from the back of his throat as he contentedly begins to groom his Alpha, applying the light kitten licks to the wounds littering the man’s strong jaw. A whiny, stuttering purr starts in his chest when he finally allows himself a brief respite to the unpleasant tugging at his nape by yielding completely to his instincts. Glancing shyly up at Hannibal, Will playfully steals a quick, wet swipe over the plush curve of the man’s lips.

 

Hannibal is taken off guard by Will’s unexpected, rambling confession. He’s still attempting to piece the words together in something solid and whole when he flinches in a rare flicker of surprise at the feel of Will’s moist tongue seeking him out. He moves just out of Will’s reach, the disappointment slowly spreading across his face at the perceived assumption that his new toy has so easily broken and that perhaps he’s misjudged him. Will releases the built-up tension in his muscles— which is not an easy feat— and goes limp like a good little Omega when Hannibal subsequently loosens his grasp. Will whines when he lifts his chin and proudly displays his claimed neck as he purrs sweetly up at Hannibal with a dopey, far away smile. Hannibal won’t be able to tell the difference between a mock heat or a real one. The chances for either is likely in this scenario and fortunately, he's actually managed to luck out for the very first goddamn time in this hell-hole. Sure the man might suspect the likelihood of a ruse, but Will’s suppressants haven’t quite vacated his system yet. The most he’ll be able to smell is a dull, increasing sweetness and Will has always been a good actor; it’s part of the job, after all.

 

_Is this a good enough show for you, Chilton?_

 

It’s shockingly dense of him. Will honestly cannot believe that he’s been so wrapped up in self-pity and resentment toward his own gender, that he’s completely failed to recall an awfully important piece of information ( _life or death information, to be precise_ ), one that’s conveniently dangled inches away from him this entire time.

 

Finding no better opportunity presented to him than this, Will breaks free from Hannibal’s lax grip and surges up with a snarl as he sinks his pair of teeth into the dead center of the man’s neck. There’s no turning back now, not after he’s solidified their bond both ways by returning the claiming bite;  but if he wants to stay in the game, it’s the only way he knows of to dramatically level the playing field between them. Will moans in rapture through his nose when the thick gush of blood and Alpha pheromones fills his mouth. He wraps his arms around Hannibal’s neck, roughly yanks him closer, and rides out the blinding sensation of euphoria. An Alpha’s blood acts as a natural aphrodisiac to Omegas, but with his mock heat already gearing up, that’s a risk he’s willing to take. There’s a very good reason you’re able to find the rows of glimmering red vials stocked alongside most high-grade suppressants on the black market and it is one that Will aims to take full advantage of. By consuming a certain amount of an Alpha’s blood, it allows an Omega’s vocal chords to temporarily shift in a way that grants them their own form of suggestion to combat the potential dangers of an abusive mate, and with Will sealing them together as bond mates, he’s given himself a permanent revision to those chords.

 

_Till death do us part._

 

Will huffs out a husky laugh against Hannibal’s throat and willingly goes along when the man rips him away by his hair with a deep growl to slam him down into the ground with another tightening hand around his neck.

 

“Oh, please,” Will says, gazing straight into his eyes. “Hurting me is just as good as hurting yourself.”

 

Hannibal smiles darkly at him. “ _For better, for worse._ ”

 

Will’s mouth is smeared in blood when he seductively licks away the ruby traces painting his lips and savors the bitter, stimulating taste of revenge. The sultry purr rises deep from his chest and he offers Hannibal a sharp flash of his blood-stained teeth as he gently wraps his fingers around Hannibal’s loosening hold on his rumbling neck and says, “Why don’t you _lay back_?”

 

Hannibal goes eerily stock-still; his face twitches in displeasure and while he does exhibit a slightly worrying amount of self-control, Will is delighted to know that he’s currently undergoing the same degree of burning pain as he did. It’s his own fault, he should have never taken to ordering Will around as an amusing pastime. _It’s all fun and games until the shoe is on the other foot._ They size each other up in silence for what feels like a long, nerve-wracking eternity before Hannibal finally purses his lips and bitterly concedes. He removes his hand from Will’s neck and lays back against the floor as he begrudgingly permits Will to enthusiastically reverse their positions. Will wastes no time planting his groin flush against Hannibal’s; he wiggles his hips until the thickest part of the man’s cock settles against his weeping hole and groans out in open relief. Mock heats may not be as intense as the real thing, but that doesn’t make them any less painful to endure.

 

Will coyly bites his lip and pouts down at Hannibal mockingly, his blue eyes now transformed to deep, smoldering gold. “What did you think would happen? Were you just going to deliberately trigger my heat and expect to sit back and watch me beg? You’re not as clever as you think you are. But I think I’ve already proven that. _Twice now_.”

 

He leans in to take a nip at Hannibal’s jaw before he mouths his way down to the musky scent gland and greedily latches on, suckling at it, while he grinds himself down against the man's stiff cock through the obstructing layer of their clothes. Hannibal tastes as amazing as he smells, and to willing partake feels like committing the most egregious of sins. _Oh god_ , he’s never felt this excruciatingly horny in his life— heat or not, it’s like he’s regressed into a hormonal teenager again— and while that should be concerning to him, right now the only thing he cares about is appeasing the burning, aching need to be filled.

 

With a loud smacking noise, Will releases him and whispers breathily against his damp neck. “I have a better idea. _Let’s make a deal._ ”

 

Will tilts his chin up and stares fixedly into the vacant lens of the camera as he unabashedly bares his throat to Hannibal. At the end of the day, all it takes is using the right type of bait if you want to lure the biggest fish out from under the murky, knee-deep waters, and what follows after that simply requires a bit of patience. His mouth drops open in a moan when Hannibal hungrily bites down on his sweet glands above the constricting line of his collar and peppers the column of his once unblemished skin in a series of violent teeth marks and bruising red patches; it’s ugly and possessive. _It’s perfect_. Will’s Omegan side is salivating at having won the biological lottery by soaring numbers in every desirable category for an Alpha mate there is.

 

Satisfied with his work, Hannibal teasingly slides his hands down Will’s waist to squeeze at the curve of his hips before he whispers conspiratorially against his overly sensitive neck,

 

“... _And what is it that you suggest?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't exactly have an online presence (or at least an active one, because in the words of Will Graham: 'that would require me to be social'. Lol.), but if anyone wants to shoot any ideas at me, you can always find me here: mercurialmars @ tumblr.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter broke me and I nearly gave up multiple times throughout, plus I had to rewrite the first half twice. I mean, this being my first fic I feel like a lot of it is past my current skill level, which is frustrating as hell, but I’m trying.
> 
> This one is shaping up to be a long one. Slow burn should be ending soon. Buckle up, cause from here on out, it should start to earn its tags. Esp the dub-con warnings.
> 
> Once again, big thanks to Prose_By_Rose for helping me out with beta reading this mess. Lol.

CH7

 

Will solidifies their deal by locking their blood smeared lips together as he sifts through the near-infinite stack of crime scene photos he’s accumulated in his head, trying to pinpoint the perfect method for disposing of Chilton. After living under Chilton’s solicitous care for so long, Hannibal is sure to have mentally fashioned together a few eye-catching designs of his own; hell, he’d probably be more than happy to share his latest recipes with Will.  _ How often has he thought about eating me? No, wait, no, no.  _ Maybe now is not the best time to ponder over that specific question, certainly not when his hormone-fueled brain unhelpfully insists on inferring everything in all of the wrong ways. Will slams down what little remains of his mental forts to hold off the assault on both his steadily decaying sanity and his throbbing dick when he gets a short but fascinating presentation of Hannibal’s head lodged perfectly between his legs. 

 

Will shifts, readjusting himself to a more comfortable position atop Hannibal, and breathes unsteadily through his nose. It takes a tremendous amount of effort and self-control on Will’s part, but he somehow manages to maintain their overly exaggerated, yet fully restrained, closed-mouthed kiss.

 

As for their arrangement, it didn’t take whole a lot of persuading to get Hannibal on board when they both happen to share the same motive of wanting to eradicate Chilton. They’ve more or less agreed to play their roles and work together to ensure a means of escape, in as little words as possible so as not to garner suspicion. It's a ‘you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours’ type of deal; Hannibal helps him escape this hellhole, and in return, Hannibal also gets the freedom to roam wild again and eat whatever part of Chilton he prefers. It’s more than fair.  _ If anything, Hannibal’s getting the sweeter deal. _

 

If that happens to fail, Will has multiple backup plans already set into place.

 

There’s no way Chilton would grant Will visitation rights with his current temperament, but if he can play the obedient pet and rack up the good behavior points by allowing the man to subject him to whatever vulgar experiments he’s already set aside for him, then maybe Will can convince Chilton to at least let him make a phone call. One phone call is all he needs to make sure this whole place comes crashing down.

 

Either way it goes, if what Chilton wants is a show, he’ll most certainly get one.  _ Even if it’s not quite the one he’s hoping for.  _ But Will can’t sit back and expect all of the credit to fall to him, he’s not the sole actor among them. Not only has Hannibal spent his whole life flawlessly trying on various shades of human-shaped costumes, but he's also actively gone on to perfect each and every role pertaining to those specific ensembles with soaring success. If Chilton finds himself unknowingly cast as a disposable character during their debut performance, rather than remaining the blissful spectator,  _ well _ , that’s the plan. He’ll only have himself to blame for the predictably bad ending that follows, won't he? 

  
  


_ Lights, camera, action.  _

 

Even having the vague, sneaking suspicion of what type of murderous crime he’s committed in a state of unconsciousness, it still boggles his mind how Chilton would voluntarily toss him straight into Hannibal’s jaws; him, an exceptionally rare male Omega that Hannibal obviously harbors more than a passing fancy for ( _precariously_ _treading the line of obsession, if he’s being honest_ ), which is not surprising as Will is the who managed to single-handedly put him here in the first place. That’s cause for some level of admiration, but he’s getting the vibe that what Hannibal feels for him is a few degrees hotter than that. Especially now. Why else would he go out of his way to bond him? Well, other than to, of course— in his mind—  make certain the punishment appropriately fits the crime by voiding any and all of Will’s professional accomplishments. There are two very highly predictable outcomes to this, _quite frankly_ , astronomical fuck up on Chilton’s part: in the process, Hannibal and he will either devour each other or everything else in their path. Chilton may be under the impression that he’s won the lottery today, but he’s shit out of luck when he finds out he's been holding onto a dud. 

 

_ Wait. _

 

Will has a flickering vision of clarity in the foggy recesses of his deep-seated exhaustion and influx of hormones.

 

The missing pieces of that shoddy puzzle are beginning to materialize right before his eyes, snapping together into place to produce a crude outline of what Will thinks he’s starting to get a clearer picture of. Practically everyone, including the media, is under the very false impression that Hannibal is merely a victim to his unstable biology. Cannibalism is commonly conceived as an act of aggression and dominance. Therefore, by Chilton’s logic, the only way to rectify this imbalance is for Hannibal to possess some sort of tool— an outlet, in this case, Will— for him to assert his fundamental Alphan need for dominance and control so that he can then proceed to relieve those violent urges through  _ other  _ means. To sum it up, the root of the cause is sexual frustration. Will’s not sure what else he expected from Chilton. He definitely isn’t sure if he wants to cry with laughter or vomit at the horrifying realization that he’s been gifted to Hannibal as basically a living, breathing sex doll to do with as he pleases in the hopes that it might somehow fix both of them. As if an Omega’s only life’s purpose is to please and fuck. 

 

Will wavers between that newfound horror and startling pleasure as he tries very hard not to dwell on how amazingly sexy it is when Hannibal uses his sharp teeth to gently tug at his bottom lip with every intention of deepening their kiss.

 

_ Think about Chilton, think about Chilton. _

 

But is Chilton really idiotic to believe that a single bite would transform him into an obedient house pet overnight? Guess he will have to break out his boots and truly test to see how shallow those waters go. It seems his plans have changed. With Hannibal now out of the equation after being invariably factored into his group ( _ and, oh, does he enjoy having the ever elusive shark on his end of the line _ ), that leaves the lesser fish to be dealt with. Chilton and Matthew, two parts of a rather detestable whole; or one and three respectively. 

 

_ There’s that number again. _

 

Will draws back, separating from the kiss with some skepticism and squints down at Hannibal’s wrinkled inmate number.  _ Lucky number thirteen _ ; although that’s highly debatable as of today. It’s an interesting coincidence, to say the least; he’s read anecdotes and real-life accounts regarding the strange phenomenon of  _ true mates.  _ Every young Omega has read some variation of this fairytale scenario, passionately dreaming away the lazy afternoon, wishing for their one true mate to come and sweep them off their feet. He’s no exception to these childish whims. Oftentimes these magical signs are manifested in a recurring phrase, a word, song, or an object— a number is a fairly common one. But that’s all it is, a fairytale. It’s not proven science; it’s dull, pseudoscientific drivel since most of it all boils down to giggling responses of “ _ oh _ ,  _ you just know _ ” or “ _ its a gut feeling _ .” Imprinting is one thing but the concept of true mates is nothing more than silly Omegan superstition that exists in the same vein as Alpha/Omega compatibility quizzes on the internet, and he refuses to believe that Hannibal Lecter of all people would be his “one true mate.” The rather absurd image of Hannibal rushing to his side in hopes of returning his missing glass shoe like a prim and proper Alpha prince from a storybook drifts to mind; Will can’t help but feel  _ profoundly  _ disturbed by this. If he’s so intent on making allusions to fairy tales, the big bad wolf is probably more fitting here.

 

Will’s rambling thoughts turn to incoherent static when Hannibal tangles one hand around the back of his curls and crushes their lips together again, conveniently putting a halt to that ridiculous notion. He has to admit, he’s oddly grateful for the distraction.

 

_ Oh, fuck it. What’s the point of being modest? _

 

In this damnable cage, they’re both slaves to their biology.

 

Will rocks his hips down against Hannibal's cock, savoring the delicious build-up of friction from underneath their uniforms, and allows the man to sensually coax open his mouth with a moist gasp. The slick has long seeped through the fabric of his underwear and has spread along his crotch in a dark, wet patch that only grows darker with every matching upward thrust that Hannibal makes. Their tongues brush together sinfully and the taste of copper— of _Hannibal_ — sends a jolting spark of sheer uncontrollable lust straight to his needy hole. When they finally separate to catch their breath, their saliva, mingled with shared blood, comes away in a pinkish string that clings to Will’s kiss-swollen lips. To confirm his earlier speculations on the inappropriate subject of an intelligent psychopath’s preferred kissing technique, Hannibal kisses exactly how he would expect him to: an incredibly gratifying combination of both brutality and sensuality. Will has to bite back a moan when Hannibal’s side of the bond responds with a faint whisper of delight like the tender caress of a feather to his nape, sending immense ripples of pleasure down his spine. Knowing that Hannibal is as affected by him as he is and that Will now holds this new magnetic power over him is absolutely _exhilarating._ Will feels drunk on the knowledge that he’s managed to so thoroughly hook his line into the man— that he’s the one Omega that’s had the pleasure to encourage this unpredictably sloppy, rash behavior out of him. Watching Hannibal Lecter ungracefully fumble at the feet of his own animalistic instincts solely because of him leaves Will brimming with a dark sense of giddiness.

 

Or perhaps that giddiness is a result of the rich Alpha blood that's pulsing through his veins, leaving goosebumps in its wake and making his heart pound out with the rush of adrenaline. Will can easily understand why Omegas are so hopelessly addicted to it—  so desperate for the quick hit of dopamine and heady aftertaste of absolute power that they are willing to do anything to obtain it. He can say with certainty that the bunk, oversaturated product that they sell on the black market could never hope to compare to the mindblowing taste of pure, unfiltered thoroughbred blood; not after he's sampled it directly from the source. Hannibal has ruined him ( _ in more ways than one _ ), and he now knows he’d never be able to settle for anything less.

 

If he wanted to, he could make Hannibal kneel at his feet with a simple purr, and if that thought alone isn’t enough to nearly make him come on the spot, well _ shit _ .  _ Oh fuck. _ Will tenses his jaw and scrambles to right his sweaty palms on the slippery, polished floor before he awkwardly goes crashing face first into Hannibal. He didn’t think he could even produce this much slick, and if this is any indicator, it can’t be long now until the chemicals have completely withdrawn from his system. In his current state of mind, he can’t accurately ascertain whether that’s good or bad news. The new, uncontrollable gush of slick trickles down the insides of his thighs and rubs off onto Hannibal’s groin at each damp thrust against his opening, but Will is so far past the threshold of his mock heat that it’s difficult feeling grossed out about it. Will bites his lip and speeds up his pace, his hips stuttering clumsily, as he gazes down at Hannibal’s enticingly moist lips. He’s so  _ close _ .

 

“Does being in this position excite you,  _ Doctor _ ?” 

 

Will sarcastically— and somewhat breathlessly— recites the same disparaging remark from their initial  _ disastrous  _ encounter, and at the heart-fluttering feel of Hannibal’s touch, he slams his hips down to emphasize this. Will whines out pitifully at the forceful nudge against his twitching entrance and the repeated kneading of Hannibal’s fingers digging into his hips, as he finds purchase by latching his claws into the man’s chest. With a fleeting, lust-filled look toward the surveillance camera, he arches his back in perfect Omegan fashion and rubs their clothed erections together in slow, teasing circles. It’s a common understanding that male Omegas aren’t as well endowed as Alphas or Betas. Comparing dick sizes is a fruitless, waste of time since— largely due to the lack of testes— biologically they’re unable to produce semen. Instead, what they do secrete during orgasm is a clear, completely sterile fluid with the taste and texture similar to slick. It’s an exchange for being highly fertile and the addition of their  _ other parts _ . 

 

The difference between their two sizes is  _ enormous _ , and under normal circumstances, this would have prompted Will into another deep cycle of self-loathing but to his horny, heat-fogged mind, it is the hottest and perfect fucking comparison imaginable to him right now. Besides, these are far from normal circumstances, as it’s not every day that you wind up in forced captivity with your  _ worst nightmare _ , find out the two of you may have a bit more in common than you originally thought, and decide to— in every sense of the word—  _ legally bind _ yourself to them. Then, ultimately determine that,  _ yes _ , going all but one shaky step away from legitimately letting them stick their knot inside of you is a valid plan.

 

If Hannibal did choose to urge him far enough along that crumbling, eroded edge… and this may be his heat speaking, but Will thinks he’d honestly let him have his way. In his inadequate defense, it would make for a highly convincing scene. Hannibal would be his first and only, seeing as he’s practically saturated in the man’s scent now. There’s no sane Alpha or Beta that would dare attempt to approach an Omega claimed so brutally by a thoroughbred of Hannibal’s pedigree unless they harbored a death wish; one look at his marred neck is enough to spook anyone. The snug collar brushes up against his bruised, over-sensitive neck in a hot reminder. They’re already bonded, what’s stopping Hannibal from taking what’s rightfully his? A deeply loathsome part of himself wishes Hannibal would just fuck him and get it over with. _Fuck me_. _Please fuck me._ Fuck, he’s never wanted, no, _needed_ , an Alpha’s knot inside of him this bad and Hannibal’s is right there practically begging to stretch him open, if not for the hindering layer of clothes between them. Will’s breath escalates into high, shallow pants and with his mouth agape in pleasure, he gyrates his hips in quick, faltering movements. _So close._

 

He wonders if Hannibal is able to smell the inexperience on him.

 

It’s way too quiet. Chilton and his despicable group of colleagues must be busy jerking themselves off to the surveillance footage and sorting out their moneyed bets over watching him surrender to his nature or instincts ( _ or whatever _ ) over the measly, embarrassing course of a single day. They’re probably popping open the champagne bottles right about now.  _ Good _ .  _ Let them _ . That’s of little concern to him when he has every Omega’s deepest, darkest fantasy laid out beneath him, waiting to ravage him, and he’d be absolutely lying if he didn’t count himself among those numbers.  _ A filthy liar and a hypocrite _ . Because the truth is, those police officers weren’t exactly wrong, he’s touched himself— fucked himself open with his own fingers to the brink of multiple orgasms on more than one vile occasion to meandering thoughts of Hannibal Lecter. Of Hannibal escaping from custody, tracking him down in a blazing act of revenge, and breeding him into mindless submission once he realized what Will had kept hidden from the public for so long. He isn’t proud of himself for that. The reality of it is, he’s utterly disgusted,  _ sickened _ , and alarmed that his own brain would even conjure up these types of images. He’s spent nights, sometimes in a row, drowning himself in whiskey to keep these sick fantasies at bay, terrified at knowing that they might resurface at any moment. The only Alpha besides Hannibal that his empathy had refused to detach itself from was Garret Jacob Hobbs before he went and offed himself. What does that say about him? When to his psychologically disturbed and unconscious mind, the ideal mate is nothing but the world’s most notorious serial killers.

 

Hannibal leisurely darts his tongue out to taste the remaining traces of their saliva and replies to Will’s deliberate provocation with, “Hannibal.” 

 

Will hums unintelligently and intensely traces the movements of his mouth with gold-hued eyes as he suppresses the all-consuming urge to re-capture the man’s lips. At the disconnected sound of Hannibal’s voice floating past him, he snaps out of his lustful haze with a confused blink and clamps his slack jaw tight. So consumed by the emergence of his repressed fantasies and the rapid, oncoming approach of his orgasm, he’s not sure that’s he’s managed to catch the entirety of Hannibal’s sentence. 

 

Will’s hips falter briefly. “... What?”

 

“I would like for you to address me as Hannibal.” There’s an odd pause here, before Hannibal casually resumes with, “With us finding ourselves in the midst of this  _ exciting _ new position, I think we’re past formalities, don’t you?” 

 

Hannibal urges Will’s excitable hips into rooted stillness with his sweltering hands and gazes up at him with equal intensity. Will stares down at him speechless, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to being in the crosshairs of those mesmerizing red sights, and while there’s no traceable emotion to be found on his  _ mate’s _ statuesque features, Will doesn’t need the aid of their twisted bond to tell him that Hannibal is thoroughly enjoying himself. It’s probably the most fun he’s had since being confined to solitary quarters after squashing those twenty or so unworthy Omegas under his foot. Will envies the man’s ability to remain so unflinchingly calm and collected despite his clear, burning desire to reassert his dominance over him.

 

Will averts his eyes as he tries to unsuccessfully reign in his shallow breaths and smother the sudden bout of creeping shame spreading warmly across his cheeks. If Hannibal’s voice hadn’t just drawn him out of his stupor— _shit_ , he sincerely hopes he hasn’t accidentally blurted aloud any of that horrendously vile filth or shamelessly begged Hannibal to fuck him like some stereotypical Omega lost in the passionate throes of heat. It’s a mock heat, _dammit_ , not a real one. There’s absolutely no excuse for him to lose his self-control like this. Will subtly attempts to shift his hips to no avail and scoffs in response as he pushes himself up by his hands into a sitting position. Regardless, he’s more than a bit frustrated that Hannibal has cut him off so close to achieving orgasm ( _purposefully denied_ ) and petulantly opts to smother the man’s erection, secretly relishing the warm pressure against his bottom.

 

“ _ Oh, Doctor Lecter. _ And here I thought you’d be into the kinky talk.” Will runs a palm down Hannibal’s broad chest, then leans back with a ridiculing snort and exhales tiredly. “Let’s not forget the fact that we’ve barely met.”

 

Will runs a jittery hand across the smooth, yet clammy skin of his flushed face with a grimace and sweeps away the limp curls clinging to his forehead. It took him years to grow that beard, and it’ll take even longer to grow back when Chilton decides to pump him full of estrogen like he does to his other pet projects. Also, a cold shower would be fantastic right about now, but he’s doubtful that Hannibal would let him wander too far out of his reach reeking like he is with the steadily rising sweetness of Omegan pheromones. There’s also the issue of Chilton’s boundless perversion and he’s not sure he’s prepared to bare it all for the cameras quite yet. It’s unfortunate that he has no choice but to endure this bone-deep discomfort for the foreseeable future. 

 

Hannibal’s predatory gaze travels appreciatively down Will’s sweat-sheened body and zeroes in on the sloppy evidence of his slick. “Have we?” 

 

The hefty implications of that short and breezy response are enough to make Will pause. In a renewed fit of modesty, he stiffly places his arms in front of him as a shield, attempting to cover up his transparent arousal in a feeble manner. Hannibal must have deemed it a suitable opening for another dizzying round of games between them; he’s almost offended that Hannibal would so suddenly choose to exhibit signs of boredom in such a compromising position. 

 

Will narrows his eyes in suspicion and hesitantly replies, “What does th-  _ ah _ …” 

 

He trails off with a startled gasp and tenses every muscle in his body when his dick jerks with enthusiasm at the erotic sensation of Hannibal inquisitively tugging along the elastic waistband of his pants. After emitting a threatening growl, Will furiously smacks Hannibal’s hands away before they’ve had the opportunity to descend upon their intended destination, and pins the man’s wrists to the floor, reverting them back to their previous position. This must be Hannibal’s way of physically gauging how far gone Will is, considering he’s lost the ability to rely on his trusty bloodhound nose.  _ He won't have to worry about that for much longer.  _ Despite the noisy whines and childlike protest of his Omegan half, he’s coherent enough to establish boundaries between them; violently, if need be. 

 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Will hisses.

 

Then, dangerously hovering inches away from that haunting visage straight from the depths of his grisly nightmares, Will reiterates in a pronounced, harsh whisper, “What does that mean?”

 

Hannibal gives him an amused curve of a smile and hikes a faint brow as if Will is nothing more than an endearing puppy with a nipping problem. Will can already hear the shuffle of cards being dealt as Hannibal deliberately drifts his attention to Will’s gore tinted lips and says, “Your prolonged loss of time is rather concerning. I must confess, I’ve already broken the first vows of our bondship by choosing to conceal this information from you. I know it’s no excuse— and my intentions were harmless, I assure you, as I didn't wish to cause you further alarm. But do you not remember showing up at my front door in the middle of the night disoriented and frantic a week after your good Uncle Jack called you onto the field?” Here he dons a ridiculously unconvincing mask of concern that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before adding, “If I didn’t know any better, William, I’d say you’ve gone and imprinted. Is it your empathy at work or perhaps you’d like to share something with me?”

 

“Oh.” Will lifts his head and rolls his eyes as he laughs out in disbelief. It’s pitiful how ravenous Hannibal is for any stray bits of scraps regarding the way his brain works. ( _ But, he's right about one thing _ .) “I don’t believe you. C’mon,  _ Hannibal _ . I thought I made it clear. These mind games you’re so fond of— they don’t work on me.  _ Sorry, try again. _ ”

 

“And what reason would I have to lie, William?”

 

Will studies him with weary contempt. “Really? You’re Hannibal Lecter or, uh, what was it that our mutual friend, Doctor Chilton, wrote on the cover of his new bestselling novel in bold, sweeping text— oh, right.  _ Hannibal the Cannibal. _ Yeah. You don’t exactly require any solid reasons for weaving your lies.”

 

Does Hannibal really expect him to believe something like that? There would have been at least some evidence or report of him taking a fifty-mile hike past state lines for a midnight rendezvous with a— at the time— complete stranger suspected of being a serial killer. Sleepwalking isn’t a commonly listed side effect of hormone suppressants, per se, but it’s not unheard of either. He’s had an episode or two, sure. There was the one time he woke up in the middle of his yard in nothing but his underwear with his dogs gathered around him protectively, the worst one was probably the time he found himself on his roof, but what Hannibal is suggesting is implausible. Hannibal is a brilliant minded _Alpha_ doctor, who's already proven that he’s remarkably well versed on the ins and outs of Omegan health and wellness. So it’s safe to say, it’s not hard for Hannibal to tie in Will’s gaps of memory with the possibility of sleepwalking. That, and he wouldn’t put it past Chilton to idiotically disclose his entire medical file to Hannibal after a few expertly placed snares, giving him just the right amount of tinder to ignite a fire.

 

Hannibal’s false concern withers away like poisonous unkempt vines at the first mention of Chilton’s unnecessary tongue in cheek practice of titling his books. Will’s with Hannibal on this one; he’s sure they can both agree on how  _ tasteless  _ it is.  _ It’s something you’d expect from Freddie Lounds, not a professional _ —  _ oh right. _

 

It’s obvious that he’s struck a delicate nerve by the mention of that misfortunate rhyme when the corner of Hannibal’s mouth tics in that telling habit of his; a habit that Will is quickly growing familiar with. Will inwardly groans as he raises his brows and discreetly tips his head up at the cameras in exasperation. It’s going to be a very long day ( _ or however long he's forced to rot in here _ ) if he has to keep guiding the laser pointer over in Chilton’s direction to heavily suggest that Hannibal should redirect his predatory aggression and pounce on the intended target instead of on him like they initially agreed upon.

 

_ Hannibal never said he’d make it easy. _

 

“Yes. You seem to enjoy reminding yourself of that fact, or do you simply relish in tasting the syllables of my first and last name against your tongue? It does sound especially lovely when you say it. ” The laser darting right over his head, Hannibal stubbornly proceeds to carry on with his petty distortions of the truth. “But don't worry, Will, darling, I am confident that once your body has successfully managed to rid itself of the residual chemicals that you will regain partial memory. If -”

 

Will lets out a noisy purr. “ _ Stop talking. _ ” 

 

Hannibal is completely overcomplicating the issue with his tedious grasp for control and he’s making it hard for any of this to seem as if it’s naturally occurring. Will is going to have to take it upon himself to quickly salvage this charade before Chilton has any inkling of their foul play. While he may not have a sturdy hold on the proper forms of Omegan etiquette, Will is confident that the best course of action here would be to just hand over the reins to his instincts and see where that takes him.  _ Yes _ . Those very same instincts that are, at the moment, overly preoccupied with pleading on their knees, begging for Will to let Hannibal mount him like a whore. In hindsight, this is quite possibly Will’s worst idea yet; but he’s already made up his mind.  _ No going back. _ That’s something that’s already been determined by their mutual bonding.

 

Will closes the gap between them with a wet smack of lips and another low, seductive purr.

 

This close he can see the warm glow of his heat imbued eyes reflecting off of Hannibal’s harsh glare.  _ Poor Alpha’s not used to being bossed around like this, is he?  _ “I thought you should know,” Will whispers suggestively, then pauses to wet his lips. _ “ _ Your sexy talk is appalling.” 

 

Will takes a few playful, growling nips at Hannibal’s jaw and begins to lazily and possessively scent-mark his Alpha by rubbing his feverish, pheromone saturated cheeks against the man’s prickling stubble, quietly marveling at the sensation of the coarse texture against his soft skin. If Hannibal has deemed him off limits to everyone by bathing him in his Alpha pheromones, then Will wants to ensure that he treats his Alpha with the same courtesy. It goes on far longer than he originally intends it to. Will admittedly gets carried away when he bumps their jaws together a bit  _ too  _ fondly and yips in contentment. The implications of this action aren’t foreign to Will, he realizes that by repeatedly marking their jaws together this way that he’s giving Hannibal the okay to initiate genuine play-mating between them.

 

“Fuck.” Will groans.

 

Another tremor of unbearable heat wracks his body without warning and Will buries his face in Hannibal’s neck as he breathes in the soothing scent of his mate to help dull the painfully burning itch spreading across his skin like wildfire. Hannibal’s exotic scent of alluring spice has spiked straight off the charts ever since Will decided to take a backseat to his Omegan instincts and Will impulsively seeks out the man’s scent gland with greedy, wet suckles, desperate for that addictive, bitter-sweet tonic on his tongue again. There’s no way to measure how long it’s been since the initial onset of his mock heat, as Hannibal’s special privileges apparently extend to neither clocks nor windows, but if his heat has already increased to this level of blinding, white-hot agony, he must be nearing the peak of hell. 

 

He’s taken off guard by the overwhelming burst of abrupt joy in his chest when he receives a deep, sonorous rumble out of Hannibal in response for his troubles and Will instinctively grinds his hips down in search of more of that hot, delicious friction between them. How sad is it, that after thirty-odd years of existence, he’s never personally been the object of an Alpha’s purr until now— not even his own father thought him deserving of one as a child. It stirs something deep and hidden inside of him, something that begs to crawl its way out of hiding and roll around on its back like a frisky pup. Will’s purring increases in pitch at the warmth of unwanted affection for Hannibal wildly blooming inside of him and he showers the fresh bite mark at the middle of his neck with fond laps of his tongue. 

 

It must be the hypnotizing sound of Hannibal’s purrs short-circuiting his brain when Will foolishly releases the man’s arms to remove his sweat-dampened shirt, yanking it over his wild mess of curls and flinging it blindly off to the side. The cool air from the ventilation system against his inflamed skin is a blessed, but temporary balm of relief. Hannibal immediately moves to sensually glide his hands down Will’s waist and gazes hungrily at the new display of bare skin. There are two things that will effectively put an end to this mind-numbing itch begging to be scratched: Will reaching orgasm or taking Hannibal’s knot. While both of these tend to go hand in hand, with a mock heat, he at least has some remnant of mental clarity and the luxury of choice.

 

“Like what you see?” Will smirks as he grabs Hannibal’s chin between his fingers and leans back enough to give him a good view of his rosy, erect nipples. He’s had enough of this lengthy foreplay between them and he’s becoming all too conscious of his poor neglected dick nestled cozily against Hannibal’s. How Will’s lasted this long without achieving orgasm is a mystery to himself; hopefully, one that is soon to reach its climactic conclusion now that Hannibal’s not busy murdering the mood with his make-believe stories. 

 

Will tilts his head and purposefully bares his neck. “What’s the matter, Hannibal? Cat got your tongue?”

 

Not that he expects to get a response; not after he’s effectively rendered Hannibal speechless and pliant beneath him, but he can't help continuing to taunt the man at every opportunity, the consequences be damned. You don't repeatedly poke the beast and expect to get away unscathed. 

 

Maybe Will doesn’t want to. 

 

There’s that dark part of himself he’s fought to deny for years, brewing silent, yet vigorously, in the back of his head that yearns for an Alpha like Hannibal to come around and fucking wreck him until he’s been reduced to nothing more than a quivering mess. A tiny, but treacherous part of him that clamors for Hannibal to put him in his place. While Will is not the typical portrait of a spineless, meek little Omega, that still doesn’t erase his evolved, primary need for a mate worthy enough of his affections, one with the backbone to take charge of the situation and reinforce his submission if he happens to step out of line; a mate who is more than capable of matching his steps. Will is fully aware of the consequences to this dangerous game of risk he keeps insisting on playing, he just doesn’t care. 

 

Placing his shaky hands on both sides of Hannibal ’s head, Will earnestly begins to take his pleasure with the slow and steady rhythm of his hips as he drags his hole over the outline of Hannibal’s huge cock. The slick feels like it’s pouring out of him and the brush of his over sensitive nipples against the fabric of Hannibal’s uniform only heightens the experience, bringing him that much closer to his release.  _ Please _ . If he doesn’t come within the next few minutes, he’s going to die, he feels like he’s actually going to die. Will trembles in anticipation and invitingly sways his hips in an unconscious mating cue that signals to an Alpha that an Omega is more than willing and ready to start the mating process.  _ Fuck me. _

 

Will moans at the fire pooling in his lower abdomen and struggles to hold himself up, his quivering arms dangerously close to buckling under him as he pants out, “Do you want to fuck me, Hannibal?”

 

Hannibal inhales sharply through his nose and drifts his eyes shut as if to quell his temper; or his  _ hunger _ . Any other Alpha would have already forced their knot inside of him like a rabid dog or come in their pants within the first few seconds of Will rutting against their fully clothed erection as if they were horny teenagers fumbling around on their parent’s living room couch. Will has to admit, Hannibal’s level of composure and self-restraint thus far is downright incredible.

 

Will coos mockingly and slaps his cheek hard. “No, no. None of that. I want you to  -”

 

Will’s stomach dips when he feels the tight, suffocating tug of their bond stretching along the back of his collar, but teetering this close to the edge of orgasm, he doesn’t bother heeding the warning— doesn’t deem it anything worth heeding. This proves to be a huge mistake. He hasn’t even finished stringing together his next scathing reply when a loud, echoing crack fills the room and the sudden, hot flare of pressure swells in his sinuses. While Will has been recklessly riding the waves of his power trip, Hannibal has somehow gathered up the necessary strength to rise up and headbutt the insolence right out of him in a pained grunt. Will staggers back from the collision as he holds his face in delayed shock and crumples over dizzily onto Hannibal who, in total contradiction to his preceding action, gently steadies him by wrapping his strong arms around him in an embrace. It’s this sudden development that causes the reality of the day’s events to, yet again, come dramatically crashing onto Will and flattening his determination. Why is he not surprised that the so-called rules of bonding don’t seem to apply to Hannibal?

 

Will sucks in a ragged breath, and with his sweaty cheek pressed up awkwardly against Hannibal’s, he forces out a weak, muffled plea of, “Please… I-I can’t- please, god, just let me come.” A shooting pain travels from his nape to his gut and he chokes out a miserable whine, going slack in Hannibal’s hold. “Ah,  _ fuck…  _ I’m going to die. You’ve ruined me. I should let you rot in here for life— the both of us.”

 

Hannibal curiously nuzzles along the side of Will’s head and scents him. The breathy sounds of him appraising his heat pheromones this close to Will’s ear make the hairs on his raw skin stand up and he involuntarily gulps down a mouthful of Hannibal's musk which only makes the ache worse when the explosion of taste— of that irresistible essence so unique to his Alpha— gets caught at the roof of his mouth. It’s embarrassing to admit, but if Hannibal decides to keep edging him like this and deliberately basking in his misery, he may actually burst out into tears of frustration. He can already feel the sad lump forming in the back of his throat. Why couldn’t he have just kept his big mouth shut and restrained himself from wagging the stick in Hannibal's face and daring him to take a bite? This would have ended a whole lot sooner, maybe then Hannibal wouldn't have felt the need to punish him this way.  _ That’s probably wishful thinking.  _

 

_ Besides, isn’t this what you wanted?  _

 

Hannibal appears satisfied by whatever he's discovered with his keen nose when he begins to rub comforting circles on Will's back and speaks directly into his temple. “There’s no need for such dramatics, Will. You appear to be suffering from a stress-related heat— it’s nothing so serious.”

 

_ It’s nothing so serious. _ How typical. That’s exactly what an Alpha would say, always trying to downplay and disregard an Omega’s pain unless it benefits them in some way. Will arches his back in response to the circular massage to his lower back, then sniffles against the discomfort in his nose and says flatly, “No shit, Doctor.” 

 

It hurts like hell, and there’s already a nasty headache building up from the pressure in his sinus, but there doesn’t seem to be any considerable lasting damage to his nose as there are no telltale signs of bleeding or broken bones. Knowing exactly who Hannibal is, the man simply intended for it to disarm him by methodically calculating the rate of force so as not to leave a blemish on his mate’s  _ pretty  _ face. How considerate of him. Will rolls his head woozily to the side and peers longingly at the obscured underside of the bed—  his one meager shred of salvation to be found amongst this ongoing tragedy. If Hannibal won’t let him come, he could try slinking away and jerking himself off to his heart's content beneath the guarded cover of his nest without the worry of Chilton or any other watchful eyes boring into him. For fuck’s sake, why didn’t he think of that from the very start? He could have easily avoided this hassle by ordering Hannibal away with his voice and giving himself a sufficient quickie before the man worked out how to break through the commandments of their bond like they were rusted old chains. 

 

“I wasn’t finished,” says Hannibal tersely, the disapproval emanating off of him thickly.

 

Will’s bare nipples feel like they’re on fire pressed up against Hannibal’s chest and the searing sensation of their shared body heat is unbearable. Will grits his teeth with a frustrated growl as he fights to break free from Hannibal’s tight grasp and bites out, “Yeah? Well, neither was I— I’m not even going to ask how you managed to counter my voice, I don’t suspect you’ll divulge that information. Color me unsurprised. Maybe if you’d let -  _ ugh _ ...”

 

Hannibal clamps a hand over his nape and maneuvers his fingers past the collar to dig painfully into his Omegan pressure point. “I wonder why you assume that there was anything to counter in the first place? Your words are meaningless when our bond speaks an entirely different language. You never did go to finishing school did you, Will?  Couldn’t afford it, or maybe you despised the idea of it? The thought of being forced to participate in all those stuffy customs built on the back of old fashioned gender roles. If you had gone, you might have come away with a greater understanding of the inner workings of a two-way bond.”

 

Will trembles in want and unsuppressed rage as he whispers hoarsely, “Fuck you.”

 

Then, after blinking away the sparse tears gathering his eyes, he melts uselessly in Hannibal’s arms.

 

*

 

A swipe of a keycard and a buzzer shatters the silence.

 

Matthew laughs and slams their meal trays loudly onto the metal surface connected to the service slot. “The boys and I could hear your slutty cries from down the hallway, Graham.  _ Fuck me! Please fuck me! I need your knot! I’m so close! Oh, Doctor Lecter!”  _ he mocks in a high, grating voice, then launches into another round of laughter. “I knew you had it in you. Good thing Lecter’s the only Alpha on this level, we don’t need you stirring up half the block with that racket.”

 

The plastic clanging against metal, followed by the sound of mocking laughter from Matthew causes Will to startle, but with Hannibal gentling him into meek obedience, he’s incapable of moving. He’s unable to do much of anything, besides lay motionless atop Hannibal and stare in blank resignation at the wood patterns in the floor as he sporadically twitches in pleasure. It doesn’t stop the heavy layer of mortification that settles over him as his brain sluggishly and reluctantly tries to process the implications behind Matthew’s revolting choice of words. 

 

That revulsion increases to unspeakable levels when Matthew finishes off with, “Doctor, you truly have the patience and self-control of God himself. If I were in your place right now, and fuck do I wish I were, my dick would be up that slick cunt so fast— Graham, you’d already be heavy with my pup.”

 

Will wishes Hannibal would have put him out of his misery in the exact same ways he did to those other Omegas, he’s beginning to think it’d be a far kinder fate than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot is going somewhere, I promise. Gonna try my hardest to advance it next chapter. (Hopefully, the next one doesn't take me another month to write.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read.
> 
> -Warning: mentions of childhood abuse.

Will meticulously counts the wood grain in the floor as he breathes in Hannibal’s comforting scent, strangely lulled by the rise and fall of his chest, and tunes out the rest of Matthew’s words. It’s not as if there’s anything of real substance found there, nothing to grasp or mold to his advantage, so he may as well save himself the additional headache and needless humiliation. Will has grown too exhausted by the day’s events to push forth, to continue to play their one-sided game of mental seesaw. It’s meaningless when Hannibal delights in cutting him down at every opportunity. Perhaps if he resigns himself to whatever cruel punishment Hannibal has in store for him next, instead of clawing back, he’ll eventually grow bored with him and discard of him like the used toy he resembles; grant him the swift exit he so desperately desires. Sooner rather than later, Will hopes, because the _disgusting_ thought of baring anyone’s child, much less The Chesapeake Ripper’s, is not something he wants to consider. Not while he’s wet and dripping, sticky with an overproduction of slick, and melting under Hannibal’s sure, commanding grip. Especially when he might gladly be willing and ready to take anything his mate offered him, no matter the dire repercussions that might come to haunt him. But unfortunately, thanks to Matthew’s excessively crude mouth, that noxious seed has already sprouted in his head.

 

It’s true that Will has spent the bulk of his bleak and lonely days longing for a family— _minus Hannibal_ — to call his own, but children have never been a major part of his life’s agenda. Time and time again, Will has witnessed, _experienced_ first-hand all the horrors and suffering that life has to offer; has done so with deafening clarity. Seating himself upon the grandest set of front row seats, observing the swing of the pendulum, and expecting the rise of the curtains only to find himself standing upon the stage. It almost seems cruel— more like downright heartless of him— to want to bring an innocent child into this world, knowing precisely who the father would be. There’s no question about that. Nobody else would want him now, not with his neck bruised and damaged beyond recognition, and Hannibal’s sinister mark permanently etched into his skin. He’s damaged goods. And if Will’s being honest, he’s no selfless figure of motherhood himself. He’ll never be able to hold up to the shining standard of what a mother should strive to if his continued track record of mental instability is any indication. There’s so much that could go wrong and there’s no telling what accumulation of horrors the two of them would unleash onto the world. He’s accepted that consequence, the result of his flawed, ailing mind, long before crossing bloodied paths with Hannibal Lecter.

 

To put it short, pregnancy isn‘t meant for him (and definitely not under such terrible conditions as these). He shudders to think of what fearsome traits Hannibal and he would inadvertently pass on through their own blood like viscous gallons of black oil spilling into the boundless Gulf, contaminating and sullying everything it touches. He’d much rather prefer to adopt if given the chance; if Chilton and Hannibal hadn’t worked in tandem to destroy any semblance of a future he may have had beyond that bleak, desolate horizon. A horizon he’d grown happily complacent with.

 

_You’ve considered it before in great detail, haven’t you?_ Will dismisses that stray thought, severs it straight at the root before it’s had the chance to strew its twisted vines, and blinks the moisture from his eyes. He doesn’t want to listen to his mind trot out the same old tired justifications for the fully intact rows of missed birth control stuffed away at the bottom of his dresser next to his gun and Visitor ID badge. It’s distressing enough not knowing when to expect Hannibal’s smooth pitch and timbre reverberating in his head or his own voice. As though Hannibal were occasionally driving his way into the space encompassing his thoughts and treacherously whispering to him in his ear.  

 

He’s considered it, what Omega hasn’t? It’s not the first time it’s crossed his mind and it won’t be the last. It’s not just expected, it’s demanded of him, so severely beaten and carved into him like the loud crack of a belt until his safe, isolated harbor took the shape of the dust-coated underside of the master bed. Dark and cluttered; the last place where his mother’s soothing scent still gently lingered. That’s when Will first learned to count. Count the steps— _thirteen_ , always thirteen from the kitchen to the front door— count the minutes, count until he was certain he heard the door slam shut and the wheels of the truck furiously peel out of the driveway. The gravel and dust kicking up at the same time that the weight of fear would lift from his shoulders. The worst was the desperate, heavy-handed knocking. An endless stream of smug, older Alphas hoping to take him in and “ _fix him_ ” by making him their second or third mate ( _not good enough for a first_ ) for daring to be the only male Omega to exist in their small, backwater town. On one end of that worn line, he’s a useless whore. And on the other, it’s his life’s duty to fulfill his biological purpose by baring pups at the earliest convenience and being a good house Omega like his mother was before she left them. “ _Otherwise, what Alpha’s gonna want you?”_

 

Will shakes with soundless laughter and presses his sweaty forehead against Hannibal. As he noses along his cheek, he stops to plant a chaste, mocking kiss on the border of his jawline. Hannibal pays him no mind, he’s more interested in the filth Matthew is spewing. Will doesn't expect him to.

 

Fix him; tear him down, tape him back up and wonder why he won’t stay together. Now, Will has to deal with Chilton and his colleagues attempting to brute force him into another one of those _pretty_ stereotyped boxes with a bow on top. All because of their own personal shortcomings. Because Chilton is a miserable, knotless idiot with mommy issues. Oh, Will knows. Knows all about it— if not, he wouldn’t be a very good criminal profiler.

 

Hannibal isn’t innocent of this behavior— _no Alpha truly is_ — with his infuriating opinion on Will’s personal decision to not waste his time or hard-earned money, by attending something as pointless of a concept as finishing school. He’s just more polite about it. It’s not worth the remainder of Will’s considerably diminished energy trying to analyze how Hannibal acquired that razor-sharp blade of information. It’s not as if it isn’t glaringly obvious. Hannibal has already astutely pointed out Will’s adamant refusal to embrace society’s notion of how a male Omega should present themselves; all within the first few minutes of meeting him. Will may as well appear feral in comparison to Hannibal’s oh-so-refined, purebred Alphan etiquette. Normally, Will wouldn’t associate the word _refined_ to someone who: forcefully bonds an Omega (in bitter retaliation), mentally tears them down, resorts to using physical force when faced with disagreement, and who takes vast pleasure in watching their _dearly beloved_ writhe in unresolved agony. _So much for the golden rules of courtship._

 

That reminds Will, they haven’t finished discussing the basics of two-way bonds. Hannibal seemed eager to put him in his place and lecture him on that subject before their unsavory guest. Their guest, who has evidently occupied himself by making juvenile kissing noises at Will while brazenly vocalizing his appreciation for his “ _tits_ ”. Explaining in great detail exactly how he’d love to suck on them and “Doctor, why haven’t you?”

 

Good question. Why hasn’t he? It’s unbelievable, no, an absolute fucking miracle that Matthew has remained intact with a vocabulary that crude; Hannibal has killed for less, Will knows he has. So, is there a _good_ reason he hasn’t taken a sizable chunk out of him yet? Matthew is fortunate that Hannibal has him tethered on such a short leash. Will would love nothing more than to rip out his throat, experience the rush of his teeth sinking into tender flesh and tasting, _knowing_ that this is the first splash of death on his tongue, to _ridicule_ him the same way he did to, to—

 

_Wrong, wrong._

 

Will’s breath hitches, and his palm shoots out against the cold floor, reaching, reaching for anything, something real, something solid to ground himself into the present. He thrashes wildly in Hannibal’s arms, clawing to drag himself to the bed, and shrinks. A feeble whine slips from his lips when the bassy tremor of Hannibal’s low, ominous growl travels through his body like a paralyzing bolt. Will swallows to rid himself of the nauseating taste of copper on his tongue and quickly clears his throat to hide his panic. The inexplicable dread of not knowing if this is some newly uncovered part of his own design or Hannibal’s seizes him in its cold grip, then dissipates at the new wave of pleasured heat stimulated by skilled fingers. Caught helplessly in the clutches of one monster, while being ogled at by another is like being on the world’s worst roller coaster conceived; ascending and descending dangerously along the tracks between elation and repulsion.

 

Will goes limp and listens to Hannibal’s heartbeat, listens to the beat thrum, thrum, until his own heart drowns it out and suddenly there’s not enough air. _Oh._

 

Most heats come in waves with little room to breathe; steep, crashing waves of suffocating pain and the burning need to fill an unbearable ache. This doesn’t feel like a mock-heat to Will anymore. This is something much, much worse. Like a dull fire waiting to ignite. A sneaking burn, that Will, so racked with fear and denial, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge; had desperately hoped that he was wrong. Maybe he’s shot himself in the foot by suppressing his heats for so long; by medicating himself for fifteen straight years with the shady concoction of chemicals bought from the black market. It was naive of him to think his body wouldn’t try to make up for those lost years. That the disastrous combination of stress, suppressant detox, direct proximity to an Alpha, and forced bonding wouldn’t bring on his real heat as a last-resort defense mechanism. And— _great_ — how fucking unsurprising.

 

A telltale flush of warmth shoots through him, concentrating downward, and Will squeezes his eyes shut against the burning pain, a deep red bloom of color spreading across his bare chest. Enveloped between Hannibal’s strong arms and his heady Alpha pheromones, Will feels like he’s dissolving and any lucidity he’s retained is swiftly tumbling and crashing out of the fragile windows of his mind. _Is that such a bad thing?_ If he succumbs to his heat, he won’t have to struggle to maintain this slow, torturous battle between his mind and body. Not anymore. A trickling bead of sweat rolls down the side of his forehead and Will gasps, struggling to catch his breath when he notices every tiny shift of movement from Hannibal beneath him. Hannibal gentling him isn’t enough to dull the pain, it’s good, feels so fucking good, but it’s not _good enough_ . He needs _more_ , needs to fill the empty ache, and Hannibal, his Alpha, is _right there_ . _What is he waiting for?_

 

There’s a hot, _too hot_ , persistent prickling at the back of Will’s nape when Hannibal speaks. His deep, melodious voice producing warm and fuzzy vibrations that overcome him. Will sucks in a breath through his teeth and knows without any doubt he’s finally lost the fight. Ready or not, it doesn’t make a difference to the rolling, white-hot waves rushing in to carry him away. “Will -”

 

“ _Yes,_ ” Will purrs sensuously, weakly thrusting his hips at the floaty, dreamlike syllable of his name emerging from Hannibal’s sinful lips and drifts to the encompassing luminosity of desire. Slotting a leg between Hannibal’s, Will insistently grinds down against his thigh, better angling himself for just the right amount of friction, wanting, _needing_ to relieve the throbbing between his legs. The wet cotton material of his underwear— _fucking women’s underwear_ — bunches up against his slit, painfully rubbing, yet still creating that pleasurable contact he craves, as he ruts himself against Hannibal. He’s a lot less disturbed— no, scratch that, he's still disturbed knowing Chilton is the one who dressed him— but, fuck, it only makes him hotter thinking of Hannibal ripping his panties off in a rut. _His pretty Omega_ . Will groans and hooks his chin over Hannibal’s shoulder. Then, squeezes Hannibal’s thigh between his legs, slick dripping from his hole, as he imagines his Alpha not just claiming from the outside but the _inside_ too, as is his due. Hannibal should have fucked him the moment he bonded him.

 

Will’s never felt this aroused in his life. Never would have imagined, not even in his wildest dreams, that it was physically possible to feel this way. There’s no way to describe it. It’s incomparable to practically everything he knows, every vast, surreal experience pertaining to the senses he’s amassed inside of him through jumping from person to person; even his first heat wasn’t anywhere near this indescribable degree of blistering desperation. Hannibal has this effect on him. The truth is, he _always_ has. Will _tried_ , he tried so hard to block it out, to turn the other way, close his eyes, cover his ears, and make it all disappear. The same sacrilegious mantra resonating inside his head in perfect synchronicity with his heartbeat: _my Alpha, mine, mine, mine._ Will consciously altered his schedule to align with Hannibal’s to get closer, but not too close; shower, eat, sleep at the same time, and with that done, he’d stare up at the ceiling, the unbearable loneliness eating away at him.

 

Hannibal inhales sharply, making every individual hair on Will’s body rise, and breathes him in, attentively scents him, taking his time to savor the sweet note of urgency pervading the room. Fondly, he rubs at Will’s lower back in the same comforting motion from earlier, and Will brings his arms up and around to cradle Hannibal’s head, pulling him _closer_. So close now.

 

After ejecting a deep exhale through his nose, Hannibal flatly picks up where he left off, “Will that be all for today, Mr. Brown? I believe your shift is about to end any moment now.”

 

Hannibal’s response is uncharacteristically rough, a stilted threat masquerading itself as an innocent observation of the time. And Will knows, that by the muscles in his thigh going taut and the dramatic increase of his pheromones, he can detect the ardency of his honeyed heat. Will rolls his head to the side, rests his cheek on Hannibal’s shoulder, and peers up with a devout curiosity at the different slopes and angles of his face; every crease and wrinkle. No more shitty articles, no more intangible strings of text on a too-bright screen, this is Hannibal in the flesh. Will’s long lost count of the perfect arrangement of wood-patterned fibers in the floor, instead, taking a great deal of interest in the jagged indentations of his teeth marks in the solid line of Hannibal’s neck leading up to his jawline. Will’s mark; the mark he put there, right at the dead center of his neck for everyone to see. If another Omega so much as looked in Hannibal’s direction, Will would tear out their throats with his own claws and feed them to him. _My Alpha, mine._ Will can’t help it, can’t stop himself from parting his lips and tenderly latching onto Hannibal’s mark, intently tracing the outline with his tongue, worshipping it, the needy, unmistakably Omegan whimpers dislodging from his throat alongside his harsh pants of breath. This is real.

 

“ _Hannibal_ ,” Will begs in a hoarse whisper. He drags his tongue up to Hannibal’s chin in a wet, revering stripe, and threads his trembling fingers in his hair. “I want you to _fuck_ me. I need you _inside of me._ You smell it, don’t you?” Will sucks in a ragged breath, and hovers inches from his lips, slowly rolling his hips down. “I’ve been saving myself for _you_.”

 

Will tries and fails to swallow the excess flood of saliva rushing up into his mouth; a symptom of his heat. A small trickling line escapes past the corner of his parted lips and travels down his chin, making a gross, dribbling mess on Hannibal beneath him. Will doesn’t give a shit. Hannibal’s already covered in his bodily fluids, the damp patches stretching dark across the fabric of his navy uniform; he reeks of Will’s syrupy sweetness. Will’s fantasized about this so many times he’s lost track. Slick and spread out on his bed with his hand stuffed down his underwear, reading article after article of exclusive interviews on Tattlecrime under the safe, private cover of darkness. The one place where he felt safe; safe from all the awful responsibilities of work, from tip-toeing along the narrow, self-erected borders of his mind, and free from judging eyes. Blanketed in darkness with only the pale glow of his phone screen in a space where he was free to _exist_ . No matter how wrong it was. How wrong it was to fuck himself to mind-blowing orgasm after orgasm with only the help of that distorted text; how wrong, that when he was loose and spent, he’d give himself a slow, experimental stretch with his fingers, imagining instead that it was Hannibal’s knot spreading him wide. It was compelling, threatening to beckon him forward, but Will never had any real intention on acting upon it. The same fucked up fantasy running through his head on a loop. Hannibal, Hannibal, _I’m going to make Hannibal my Alpha. I put him in, it’s only right I break him out. Stop my birth control, stop my suppressants, and let him fuck me, breed me, fucking come inside of me until I’m pregnant with his child. I’ll petition it, they’ll have no choice but to let him go. Hannibal would be a good provider, no, a great provider for our children_ — _the ultimate provider. Top of the food chain. He’s the perfect Alpha, mine, mine, nobody else’s._

 

Hannibal, whether intentional, applies a greater force around Will’s scruff, shakes the filth right out of him like he’s nothing but an unruly pup, and splays his fingers across the small of his back. Will takes his bottom lip into his mouth, digs his teeth into it, and waits, waits with bated breath for his Alpha’s next move.

 

And it all goes scattering, when without hardly missing a beat, Hannibal obliterates him with a single two-letter word, rejecting Will in favor of observing the waste of a person on the other side of the plexiglass. “No.”

 

“What—” Will blinks in bafflement, releases his lip, and whimpers at the overstimulation to his pressure point, not knowing how to process the sting of Hannibal’s flat out dismissal. One of his darkest, innermost confessions spoken out loud and actualized. The anguish that Will has suffered from fluttering on the edge of this denial is insurmountable. Hannibal is the one who bonded him; he knew this would happen, wanted it to happen. Here Will is begging him for it, baring himself wide open, and his mediocre reply is “ _no_ ”?   

 

Will rears back and spits in Hannibal’s face. “What kind of Alpha are you? Clearly, you have no problems getting it up, so what—? Is it a bought of performance anxiety or, don’t tell me. You have a small knot, don’t you?”

 

Matthew snickers in the background and Will turns to him with venom in his voice, “How’s your nose?”

 

A shadow of surprise crosses Matthew’s face. “... What?”

 

“Your nose,” Will huffs out a bitter laugh. He bares his teeth at Matthew and throws his head back with a jerk to imitate the satisfying motion of his head colliding with him. Hannibal's hand dislodges from his collar during the movement. “Don’t remember? Come here so I can give you a refresher. What are you waiting for? Come here and suck my tits— I fucking dare you.”

 

Matthew gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Cute. Looks like someone has preheat syndrome.”

 

“Don’t be rude, dear,” says Hannibal. “This type of behavior is unnecessary. Perhaps if you gave me the proper time to formulate my responses before cutting me off—”

 

“ _Oh_ , okay, so he can get away with talking like that, but when I do it, it’s _rude_ ? I guess you’ll just have to _eat_ me then. I know you’re looking forward to the brains— do me a favor and eat my heart first. You already tenderized it, may as well start there.” Will sways his hips, slips the tip of his tongue out and drags it across his lips, then says, “Both of you are fucking cowards— all bark and no action.”

 

Hannibal wipes away the spit with an air of perfect calmness. Then, without warning, smashes the heel of his palm into Will’s stunned face, rubbing his filthy fingers on him like he’s his personal napkin. Will may as well fucking be since nobody here considers him as anything but an object; unwanted— and by how the day has gone, a useless crumpled up napkin is an apt description of his emotional state. Will makes a disgusted noise, flinches at the gross smear of dampness cooling on his cheek, and stews. Stews in the sick realization he carries such twisted, thorn-like affections for a monster in his heart. What’s worse is he can’t blame their fucked up bond for warping his vision— not when it’s his fault for imprinting on Hannibal.

 

Everyone was right about Will. Even though he hid it well; they knew. Understood on a molecular level that there was something _wrong_ with him.

 

The room tilts as a new wave of fire-hot agony sweeps him up and Will _snaps_ ; the bottled up emotions seeping through the fissures; an overwhelming pressure shattering from the inside to create a deadly explosion of sharp glass. Falling back to his instincts, Will lets loose an ear-splitting howl of distress, and shoots up on his knees, only to get dragged back into a crushing embrace by the horned, blackened figure of his mental torment.

 

“ _Will_. I need you to calm down, please.”

 

A broken, stuttering purr fills the room. “No— don't tell me to calm down. You don't know what hell I've gone through because of _you_. You don't have a fucking clue. I offered myself to you— _to you_ — and, and you know what? You _wasted_ it, asshole. _Don’t fucking touch me, don't look at me, and don't come near me._ Now _let_ _me go_!”

 

*

 

“Fuck, that’s the worst fucking sound. You should hear the bitches upstairs howling all day and night— I’m starting to think they do it for fun. I had to start carrying earplugs.” Matthew paces in front of the glass in an irritated, almost urgent manner. “Tough luck, Doctor. Like he said, what a _waste_ , you should have fucked him ages ago.” After a tense pause, he looks up at the ceiling with careful deliberation. “I did what you asked.”

 

“Do you not have places to be?” Hannibal steps up to the glass and crosses his hands behind his back. “Or did Dr. Chilton send you down here to skimp out on responsibilities and chatter the evening away with his prized breeds?”

 

“If it’s the cameras you’re worried about,” Matthew shrugs, darting his eyes to Hannibal’s slick stained thigh. “He’s not the most tech-savvy individual.”

 

“Then I’d ask that you also learn to exercise patience,” says Hannibal. He gestures at Will with a sweep of his hand. “Does he look like he's in any condition to speak?”

 

Matthew slams his fist on the glass and growls. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, Doctor.” Then, wild-eyed, he sets his gaze on Will and takes a deep, groaning breath before throwing himself against the glass in a frenzy. “ _Fuck_. I’ll fuck you, sweetheart. I’ll take real good care of you. I know exactly what you need— a good, fat knot to fill up that tight little aching hole of yours.”

 

Hannibal steps to the side, cutting off his line of sight. “Mr. Brown, I suggest you leave.”

 

“Not until I talk to him.”

 

“Now is not the time for rational discussion. We wouldn’t want to set off that unfortunate chain of events, would we? I think it rather defeats the purpose. It would be in your best interest to step away for the meantime— take time to clear your head. We can always reschedule this meeting to a later, more convenient date. Our dear agent Graham won’t be going anywhere.”

 

Matthew tightens his fists as he works to control his breathing, and replies, “Well, excuse me, not all of us have the same otherworldly self-control as you do. You smell what I smell, right? If I had known that beforehand, I would have never settled for sloppy seconds.”

 

Will writhes on the bed and purrs in rapid succession. The first stifling wave was nothing compared to this sweltering fever; the heat sickness and withdrawal settling into his sweat-sheened body through his pores. He’s going to die. He might actually fucking die from this— would Hannibal eat him? _Keep a part of me forever._ Or would he consider it a disappointment he didn’t live long enough to be _killed_ by succumbing to a foolish self-inflicted illness? _Toss out the bad meat._ Launching himself over the edge of the bed, Will lurches and vomits up a thick black substance. The same tar-like fluid that seeps with abundance from the holes in his heart; Hannibal’s dark essence penetrating him through the jagged impression of their sacred union, rearranging him from the inside out and substituting the lifeblood that courses hotly through his veins. Will runs his trembling fingers across the top of his head, afraid of what gnarled appendages he’ll find jutting up to the heavens from his skull, and rocks to soothe himself. _I hope he eats me. Please don’t let me go to waste._ When he next blinks, only the foamy, translucent contents of his empty stomach splattered across fake wood reflects the unrelenting brightness overhead. Will runs the back of his hand across his mouth and lets the stray tears slide down his cheeks.   

 

Will originally made a dive for his safe zone, his barren, makeshift retreat, but instinct kicked in at the last moment. The place where _his mate’s_ scent is most concentrated is the preferred choice for a heat-sick Omega to build their budding nest. Anything to assuage the crushing emptiness battering at his ribs. Will regrets ordering Hannibal away, regrets it with every heat-tingling fiber of his being. He yearns for Hannibal’s touch, for his closeness, yet the flippant rejection of his shameful desires laid out bare was the day’s final straw. In his boiling, irrational mind, if he’s to suffer this cruel threadbare rope binding them together by the throat, then Hannibal should experience the same hollow rejection: the loss of his mate. They both deserve it; both deserve each other. Let the punishment fit the crime, isn’t that Hannibal’s cold-hearted belief? And at least if Will dies, Hannibal won’t get away unscathed. No Alpha, psychopath or not, is equipped to withstand the soul-crushing emptiness of a broken bond. _He’ll regret bonding me. I’ll make sure he does._ Curling up on his side facing the gold-trim wall, opposite of Hannibal and Matthew, Will busies himself by grinding a palm against his straining dick. His shallow breaths and hammering heartbeat make it hard to hear, much less collect his own thoughts. Though it’s impossible for Will to ignore the sudden crackling air of hostility shuttling back and forth between the two men sizing each other up through the glass, most of their conversation flies right over his heat-muddled head.

 

What he now knows is this: Hannibal isn’t immune to his voice. Both men appeared visibly agitated by his howling distress call.

 

Another strange ripple of confusion nudges at him through the blur of need: _why_ ? Therein lies a piece of crucial, game-changing information; the final solution to the nagging question mark next to Matthew’s name. Matthew, with the too sharp teeth, disgusting mouth, incessant leering, and the— you know, Will has to give it to him— _boldness_ to stare in the face of pure evil without turning tail.

 

There’s another tremendous thud, the sound of Matthew as he batters himself against the glass at the same time the strained gears in Will’s head click into place, and then silence.

 

Will straightens, the heavy arousal permeating his mind parting like fog under the illuminating beam of headlights as he bristles at the revelation. For all his gifts, he curses himself for not realizing it sooner. Will discreetly scents the air and hugs Hannibal’s pillow closer against his chest. There’s no detectable trace of an Alpha besides Hannibal, and while Hannibal has a remarkably overpowering scent— one that elicits the urge in any Omega to roll over and show their belly, him included— Will’s nose would still work to distinguish a potential nearby threat to his territory. He supposes there could be the possibility of Matthew using scent blockers; Alpha branded blockers are rare, but not for any legal basis or out of the lack of supply. Call it a matter of pride. It’s not like they have anything to fucking hide, they’re not the ones at risk of being forced and taken on the street. Or a cage. But Will can’t use that excuse anymore either, can he? He got what he wanted.

 

The line of Hannibal’s jaw tightens as he tilts it, conveying his displeasure, and from this distance, though he can’t see it, Will can visualize the distinct tic to his mouth. Can visualize himself leaning in to kiss away the creases from Hannibal’s stern formation of lips; Will hates it, hates that his long-kept control over his feelings for Hannibal is no longer within his grasp.

 

Hannibal disperses a bitter flood of pheromones into the air. “I don’t recall that being a part of the discussion.”

 

A warning from one Alpha to another, an action meant to ward off a perceived territorial threat, further proving Will’s findings on Matthew. But to Will, it’s an intoxicating drug, one reminiscent of Omegan catnip, and he drops open his mouth at once, greedily drawing it onto his tongue. In a frantic burst of exaggerated euphoria, Will chirps softly and rolls around on his back, mingling his sweet scent with Hannibal’s. Once satisfied, he flips onto his stomach and savors the lazy drag of his flesh against the soft sheets. It’s an act— half-act. The other half, he’ll admit, is instinct. Still, it works in his favor; the less they realize his capacity for rationalizing the situation the better. They’re more likely to loosen their lips and spill vital information that way. Feed him the necessary ammo to wound.

 

“No, but you knew exactly what I wanted when you guided me along to do your bidding,” Matthew snaps, and with a dark, appreciative growl, says, “Will Graham is the perfect mate, isn’t he? Pretty, intelligent, and just begging to be tamed. The whole package. He has a _gift_ , the ability to understand— to see us, the real us, in ways that no common bitch ever could. If I were you, I’d make every minute count. Cherish them while you can, Doctor, you’ve got twenty hours. Not counting the four you wasted by not fucking him into the mattress.”

 

The two-way receiver from Matthew’s belt crackles.

 

Matthew switches it off and sighs. “That would be Dr. Chilton. My guess is, he’s having technical difficulties.” He pulls a small bottle from his pocket, tilts his head back, and sniffs it, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Gotta run, Doctor. We’ll talk more about this later.”

 

Will rubs his flushed cheeks on Hannibal’s pillow and sweeps his blurry focus from Hannibal to Matthew and back again as he attempts to connect the overlooked dots.

 

“But, before I forget, Dr. Chilton wanted me to drop off Graham’s welcome package. Should come with all the basic Omegan essentials— feminine hygiene and whatnot. Anything else he needs, as long as it’s within reason, he’ll have to fill out the form included. You already know the deal, Lecter.” Matthew pulls back the handle to the drop off slot and deposits the pink toiletry bag before letting it slam shut with a rattling bang. At the door, he throws one last glance over his shoulder at Will and twirls his key ring around his finger. Their eyes meet, and with a wink, he says, “If Lecter won’t fuck you, you know where to find me. Give me a buzz, _sweetheart_.”

 

Will purrs and smiles devilishly at Hannibal from behind when he says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I title this chapter: more questions and more of me scrambling to answer them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout outs to my beta-reader. <3 <3 <3

Will always imagines his first time as something mild. Sweet kisses, gentle touches, and even sweeter words ghosting along the delicate skin of his neck.

 

_Unfuckable. Unlovable. Unwanted._

 

An end-all solution that would render obsolete those frequently uttered reminders that collided so sharply with each other in his head. And in its stead, surely followed a life-changing revelation or a profound sense of purpose. An unrealistic ideal enforced on him since before his first heat even presented itself. Because to an Omega, the greatest answer and gift in life is to bond, marry, and devote himself entirely to his Alpha; his only usefulness born with the willingness to submit under the boot of his mate. Will isn’t sure when the narrative shifted, veering into unrecognizable shapes but when the lights dimmed, so too did his imagination.

 

Then, Hannibal happens— without warning, and with the force of a swift and cataclysmic event.

 

*

 

Will's memories wobble back and forth and weave themselves together in an indefinite line.

 

*

 

It takes Will three round trips to Jack’s office for things to finally set in motion, each actor taking up their respective positions on the dimly lit stage. All three trips from his empty classroom to Jack’s domain are delayed by a quick detour to the break room where he stops, flops down in one of the chairs and meditatively sips at his lackluster cup of coffee. It’s always noticeable by the consistency of the brew who has prepared the day’s pot, and today’s tastes like weak, soggy cigarettes. Nobody worth mentioning. Alana makes the best pot, but Jack makes the strongest.

 

The first two times he scalds his tongue, too distracted by his thoughts spontaneously competing in a marathon. Will debates dumping it out, it tastes like garbage, certainly not worth burning himself over, but he swallows it anyway. Down to the last drop. Through all the discomfort and disappointment, Will reckons it can only be a precursor for what’s in store. With that in mind, his feet automatically route him back into the threshold of his classroom, and to safety. The third time, he narrowly avoids this fate by the mere tip of his tongue before remembering to blow, and therefore takes it as a sign to proceed. Never mind the fact that he insists on poisoning himself with shitty coffee like it will somehow magically improve the taste or the overall outcome. But, hey, third times the charm. One sip and he resolves himself, throws away the nearly full cup, cuts out the unwanted chatter in his mind, and walks straight through the damn door. He doesn’t knock, and Jack doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, he’s the most pleased Will’s ever seen him to date; sitting there, so fucking sure of himself because nobody says no to Jack Crawford.

 

Especially not an Omega.

 

Will puts himself directly in front of his desk— unrecognizable under the messy sea of files occupying it alongside a bottle of whiskey and painkillers— and pushes the bridge of his glasses up without a word before addressing Jack’s tie with a nod, pressing his lips together in a tight frown. It’s improper for an Omega to initiate eye contact with an Alpha, but Will plays it off as a by-product of his gift, not a habit struck into him by cheap leather peeling at the ends until it’s been lodged so deep it’s impossible to dig out. And nobody’s the wiser.

 

“I know that look,” says Jack, leaning back in his chair with a victorious half-smirk that makes Will ill to his stomach. “What’s made you change your mind?”

 

Will places his hands on his hips, then removes them quicker than his mind strings together previously unconnected pieces of evidence. Shifting a bit on his feet, he plucks an envelope from the desk, paranoid that Jack might perform his own leaps of logic if he notices the way Will’s hips curve beneath his baggy layers of clothing. There was a brief and awkward period, a few months after his entrance to the academy, that Will considered propositioning Jack. Drunk and desperate, swayed by the disturbing stretch of similarities between Jack and his father that his traitorous brain cooked up; his self-destructive behavior rearing it’s damn head as it tended to. Miraculously, the night ended with a dead battery on his phone, Will too inebriated to slot the charger into the socket, and him passing out in a heap on the floor with his dogs.

 

“Let’s just say I feel a staggering amount of obligation to…” Will clears his throat and continues, carefully enunciating his words. Afraid that if he doesn’t, the truth might trickle out: _a staggering amount of obligation to meet this monster._ “Bring an end to this. That’s all.” He flips the file open and stares intently at the photograph paper clipped against the manilla envelope. Commits every line and detail to memory and tries to will away the tremor in his hands, his body involuntarily reacting. Reaching out. “And I know that if I don’t— uh, you aren’t one to gracefully bow down and accept a refusal. I’d rather not have you disrupting my class anymore, Jack.”

 

“Good.” Jack rises to his full height, slams both hands down on his desk in a booming thud of finality, and Will lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Let’s not waste any more time.” Jack gestures toward the investigation board off to the side and Will can practically taste his inflexible determination carried over by the spike in pheromones. Both of them raring to go, but for vastly different agendas: one for the sake of upholding justice, and the other born of selfish greed. Despite the dissimilarities of their overall driving forces, the end goal essentially remains the same. _Cuff him and cage him._

 

“Tell me what you think.”

 

“Of course.” Will nods shortly, hard-pressed to disagree as he moves to the board, file still in hand. With his back now facing Jack, Will scrunches up his face in disgust and sniffles a bit, trying to rid himself of the bitter stench of mated Alpha. _What does the Chesapeake Ripper smell like?_ “My last two excursions on the field were eye-opening, to say the least,” says Will, looking from the photograph in his hands to the bundle of interconnected links of red thread traveling across the board like a system of veins. Will blinks the mental image away and continues, “I see his face. Gradually manifesting itself, um, fuzzy and formless in its current state, but given enough time I can produce an outline. It is a distinct shape, after all.”

 

Jack drives himself into the proximal radius of Will’s comfort zone and comes to stand beside him, shoulders practically bumping. Asserting himself. Redundant posturing. As if Will wasn’t already at his heels like a dog on a leash since before he sullied his hands in Garret Jacob Hobbs’s blood. Jack spends more time with him than he does his fucking wife that it may as well be considered cheating. Will resists the initial urge to shrink away (display his neck like a good Omega) and pretends to distract himself with the board, occasionally glancing downward. Jack leans in close, curious as to who exactly has managed to capture his attention thus far, and Will flips the file shut. There’s no way in hell he’ll be able to convince Jack at this stage, it’s hard enough to convince himself; even taking his abilities, all too often described as parlor tricks, into consideration. Not that he intends to divulge his anatomical findings. Not yet— not until he sees this Dr. Lecter with his own two eyes, because he has to know with absolute certainty that this is real.

 

“Dr. Lecter?” asks Jack, thoroughly confused. “Not sure how that one got into the mix.”

 

Jack reaches to take it from him. Will startles like a cat, bumps sideways into a file cabinet and clutches the folder to his chest. The fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on edge as his teeth grind together in a soundless growl.

 

“Will?” Jack takes a cautious step back and sighs, pity in his eyes. “It’s unrelated. Unless you’re considering therapy? You will have to go eventually. FBI’s orders. We need to know you’re okay after… what happened.” _We need to know you’re not crazy after dropping ten bullets in a guy._

 

“Oh, I’m just peachy.” Will gives Jack the most unconvincing smile in the world, his voice breaking on the last syllable. Everything about him, down to the sickly pallor to his skin and dark circles under his eyes scream the opposite. He runs a hand through his hair and in a rush of breath adds, “It’s just the caffeine. I had three cups before I got here— it was a mistake. Obviously.” Technically two and one sip, but that’s splitting hairs.

 

Will steadies himself against the file cabinet and bites his lip in hesitation. “But um— I was curious what he looked like. Wanted to know before I made any sort of major decisions concerning my mental health. It’s important that I get a good look at the person whose job it is to poke and prod around inside my head.” He waves the file in the air and heads toward the door. “I think I’ll hold on to this for now.”

 

Jack blocks his path before he can escape. “Hell, that’s as good as any yes I’m getting out of you. And believe me, Will, it’s for the best,” he says, with that same pitying look of regret as if Will might crack down the center at any moment. The one Will hates. “But I should probably let you know that Dr. Lecter is booked full until god knows when. You just missed his last slot by a week. He mentioned it over dinner two days ago. That means your choices are between Bloom and Chilton. I can give you their files if you—”

 

“Oh,” Will mutters, the disappointment palpable. “No thank you. If you’ll excuse me—”

 

Jack’s hands come down on his shoulders with the same dreadful weight as a cinder block; so large that the side of his thumb grazes the skin of his scent gland by accident. Will reluctantly lifts his gaze from his feet to Jack’s chin (never his eyes), and if he had a tail, it’d likely be tucked between his legs. Ears pressed flat against his head. Will hugs the folder tighter and tenses, dread arising from the steep drop in his stomach.

 

“I’ll call you if anything new turns up,” says Jack. It’s a simple parting statement, but Will hears it for what it really is: a pointed reminder. The imaginary collar locked around his neck and Jack tugging the opposite side of the chain. It never fails, Jack whistles and Will comes running.

 

Jack squeezes tight, so tight that his fingers might leave an imprint. “Don’t let me down, Will.”

 

Will clenches his jaw and smiles, or tries, the most he manages is a strange twitch of his lips. “Have I ever?”

 

Jack says nothing, he doesn’t have to. The conversation is over. He runs his palms down to Will’s elbows, gives him a small reaffirming pat, and releases him. It’s possessive and controlling, and completely unnecessary. Will stands there for a second, in the dead center of his office where the floor seems to want to swallow him up, dumbfounded as to why Jack has thought it necessary or appropriate to fucking scent mark him. If it was a conscious decision or not, it doesn’t make a difference; it’s inappropriate as hell. You don’t just scent mark people out of nowhere. For an Alpha to scent mark an Omega-- not that Jack realizes he’s one--  it’s an invitation, a signal that you’re interested in them, a mark of ownership to deter other Alphas. And Will isn’t anyone’s fucking property.

 

Will whirls around, opens his mouth to voice his displeasure, then all but bolts from the room at a single look from the man. Always the same damn grim expression like Will is some fragile little creature that Jack has begrudgingly tasked himself to care for. It’s usually all it takes for Will’s confidence to wilt because what if he suspects? Even worse, what if he knows the truth? _It doesn’t make sense for an Alpha to scent mark a beta. It would explain the unnecessary amount of posturing, just think about it. He touched my scent gland— it wasn’t by accident. Why else would he look at me like that? He knows._

 

That’s impossible.

 

Will groans out loud and shakes his head, trying to drown out the unwanted thoughts. His head hurts.

 

With Lecter’s file still in hand, Will makes a beeline toward the restroom. The one located at the back of the building— the one nobody ever goes to because it’s too out of the way, surrounded by rumors of ghosts, suicide, urban legends, and other superstitious nonsense. Invented by students with too much death on their minds and time on their hands. It’s the perfect hiding spot. Will shoves the file under his arm and digs in his pockets for his bottle of suppressants. His hands shake so hard he loses grip on it a good few times, almost drops it on the floor. How the fuck would he explain that rolling up to someone’s foot? Easy, he’s repurposed a bottle of aspirin. The room is noisy with the _rattle-rattle_ of pills knocking around in their container. Will breaks out in a cold sweat as he shakes two free onto his palm, brings them up to his mouth, and swallows them dry. Four pills a day, sometimes more. Depends on his level of paranoia.

 

Will twists on the cold water and splashes his face. If he stares long enough at his reflection, the entire world around him disappears and his shape becomes unrecognizable.

 

*

 

A day passes by in heat and agony.

 

Twenty-four hours come and go without incident. Not even a glimpse of Matthew. He's replaced by two new faces, both stare at him longer than what is deemed acceptable, and one is even brave enough to clean the vomit while Will is blinking in and out of consciousness less than a foot away. Hannibal is restrained, of course. While it relieves Will to not have to sit through another round of unnecessary name calling under Matthew's lecherous gaze, it also makes him wonder if there was any validity to what Hannibal and he had discussed. That’s if he heard them correctly, and really there’s no way of telling. He can’t even remember the weeks preceding his capture. Needless to say, his compass for reality isn’t the most reliable tool at his disposal. Nothing makes sense anymore.

 

Surrounded in a messy heap of Hannibal’s bedding, Will feels like he’s one foot in the present and the other lost in a humid daydream. He isn’t sure which one he’s transiting, isn’t sure he cares. Right now he’s _spilling—_ no, fluid. Molten and malleable; ripe with the fullness of heat. The persistent scratching of a pencil on paper from Hannibal’s side of the room is like nails against a chalkboard. Will curls himself into a tight ball, presses his nose to Hannibal’s pillow and sucks in deep, dizzying breaths to help calm himself. Hannibal’s musk fills his nostrils the same way the earth does in anticipation of dark and stormy clouds and Will wants more of it. Wants to wrap himself up in it and never emerge, wants to feel his Alpha’s heavy weight pressing down on him and grounding him. More than that, Will wants for Hannibal to breed him, fill him up until the unbearable pain is gone and he can finally _breathe_. He can’t stop thinking about how good it felt to have Hannibal pinning him down. Hannibal’s stiff cock rubbing and teasing his leaking hole through all those disappointing layers of clothing— can’t stop imagining how it would feel if those layers were gone. No more pesky barriers between the two of them. Will wants so desperately to experience the stretch of an Alpha’s knot inside of him, touching that deep place, fulfilling that overwhelming completeness that no toy or finger could hope to achieve.

 

Simultaneously, he’s disgusted and uncomfortable at the idea of being penetrated.

 

Will can’t help wanting, and yet, he’s nauseated by it, despises himself for wanting what any Omega in his situation would.

 

Hate and desire go hand in hand with Hannibal.

 

Hannibal refuses to acknowledge him, refuses to look or touch, and seats himself at the furthest edge of their make-believe house. After all, it was Will who ordered him to.

 

*

 

Another mirror.

 

It is not like the mirrors in Quantico, a near-endless expanse of glass that is not dissimilar to staring head-on into the dazzling glare of a floodlight. This mirror is lit only in the dim, orange glow of his bedside table lamp. A simple floor mirror where he goes to observe his reflection without the boring layers upon layers of deception: soft skin, curves, and hairless body; aside from his beard and the few light dusting of hairs on his arms and legs. And, of course, the dark patch that remains nestled beneath his briefs. Will wraps his own fingers around his neck and cocks his head to the side, imagining the blood-tingling pressure of a collar looped around it. He can feel his pulse throbbing as he presses tighter, fast and consistent—  _discordant_ with the slow and steady dance that exists someplace in between the enclosed space of his head and reality. Lecter’s file lies open on the bed behind him as he shamelessly admires himself in the mirror.

 

_Maybe I’m just crazy._

 

Will slides his hand around and digs his fingernails into his nape to emulate an Alpha’s bite— it’s a poor substitute for the real thing, but Will tips his chin down and moans. A warm quiver spreads down his belly, urging his cock awake. The area is _too_ fucking sensitive. Will is painfully aware this is the Omegan equivalent of teens practicing kissing by mashing lips to their own damn wrist. Might as well write Lecter’s name in the margin of his notebook and encase it in a heart while he’s at it. He’s thirty for god’s sake. _This is ridiculous._

 

Will drops his hand and sighs, the day’s exhaustion expelling from his lungs. It’s not like this has never happened before. An unfortunate trade-off of his empathy. It’s happened with Hobbs and practically every psychopath before him, and it’ll fade away like it always does. He turns away from the mirror and approaches the bedside in nothing but his underwear and the crescent-shaped imprints of his nails gradually fading from his skin.

 

Will stops to peer down at Lecter’s face, then shuts the file.

 

What makes Lecter any different?

 

*

 

_Scratching, scratching, scratching._

 

Will shudders awake for the third time that day, his face mashed against the heap of blankets and Hannibal’s pillow wedged between his legs, his hips conveniently elevated for breeding. The pulsing throb between his legs flares to life at the first whiff of his mate and Will rolls his hips forward on instinct. He almost doesn’t recognize the urgent, high-pitched whines spilling from his own mouth alongside the mindless repetition of his dick grinding into the ridge of his Alpha’s pillow. It starts off painfully slow, sliding and rubbing at the space where his damp slit meets the underside of his full cock, and it’s so good. _Almost too good._ Building hot friction, faster and harder, sending him to completion. Will digs his claws into the sheets below and squeezes his legs together with an unbidden moan, bouncing up and down; back and forth; alternating between wild humping and leisure little circles designed to maintain the budding intensity of his oncoming orgasm.

 

With his cheek pressed hard into the bed and his eyes screwed tight in rapture, Will’s mind races to grasp onto the unholy image that never fails to drive him to the brink.

 

Hannibal hunting him down in true Alpha fashion, dominating him by force, mercilessly driving his thick knot inside of his tight virginal hole. Like Will was fucking made for him, made for his cock. Will imagines himself fighting back; growling, clawing, bucking until it riles Hannibal up to something bestial, stinking of testosterone, the ravenous urge to _claim, fuck, breed_ the last string of thought left alight in his wicked mind. Hannibal in a rut. Rough hands gripping his curls, predatory teeth latching onto his nape as a sign of dominance and rendering him helpless. A sharp, unrelenting reminder to Will of his status. Will matches his thrusts with the ones unfolding in his fantasy, and gasps. His sensitive chest drags across the smooth sheets, puffy and swollen from his heat. The up-and-down strokes to his erect nipples create sparks of electricity down his spine. A new drool of slick messes his underwear together with the sweat gathering along his taut thighs. _Oh, oh, god._ He’s gonna fucking come. _Fuck._ Will whines and pants shamelessly, clenches his teeth as he shifts, and presses down onto the soft surface with his forehead instead.

 

His fantasy doesn’t stop there.

 

In it, Hannibal’s knot fills and catches, locking them together as he spills his thick cum inside him with hot, pulsing throbs. Pumping him full of his seed until it’s an irrevocable certainty that Will is pregnant with his child. _Thoroughly fucked and bred like a good Omega._ His stomach heavy with Hannibal’s pups.

 

“Ha… nngh!” _Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal._ Will keens loudly and bites down on his wrist, his entire body flushed and tingling.

 

Will’s body quakes uncontrollably, toes curling as his orgasm rips through him, and with a choked groan he collapses in a trembling heap. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, so intense it brings tears to his eyes, and it still does nothing to dull the throbbing. The only thing it succeeds in doing is making it _worse_. This time, Will cries. Tears slide down his face as his slick hole quivers and grasps onto the promise of a knot that never comes.

 

*

 

Hannibal sits at his desk, unfazed by Will’s porn-worthy performance. This pisses Will off to an immeasurable degree. As does his stupid, handsome face— the way his hair dips soft along his brow, and the way his lips purse into that kissable curve, eyes wrinkling with concentration as he works the pencil in deft, sweeping lines. Strong features, which means dominant genes, and god, they’d make great children together. Will would give him an Alpha. Will swallows audibly and sucks in his bottom lip, recalling with vivid detail just how fucking good of a kisser Hannibal is. His neck twinges of ownership.

 

While the pain remains, relieving himself has granted Will a wavering amount of clarity; just the right amount to temporarily drag him gasping to the shores of reality.

 

“Please,” Will says, suddenly, his voice weak with disuse, and his mouth full of saliva. Wrecked. Pleading. And for what— for Hannibal to put down his pencil, cease this cruel and needless game, or to come here, Will isn’t certain. He swallows again, digs both heels into the present, and continues. “I can hear you thinking. My inner voice sounds like you.” Hannibal doesn’t look up, but Will has his attention. It’s clear by the way the graphite screaming against paper slowly fades. “No, hear isn’t the right word. I can feel you bumping around inside my head. You want me, want this just as bad as I do. You’ve been at it for a while now, haven’t you? _I know._ ”

 

The truth was evident from the start, and if Will were to reverse his steps, backtrack to the beginning of this entire shitshow, it makes sense. The most sense. Hannibal is the silhouette behind the curtain, has been this entire fucking time. He’s the one pulling the strings on this puppet of his. A puppet by the name of Matthew Brown.

 

Will wasn’t capable of articulating it until now. He’s heatsick, but he isn’t hopeless. The snarling exchange between the two men spelled it out as clear as day. Matthew all but handed it to him on a silver platter, seemingly as a way to spite Hannibal and reveal where his true loyalties lie. It’s also possible Will is giving Matthew far too much credit (he could just be a foulmouthed idiot), but regardless, he’s an easy target. Based on his preoccupation with his… assets, it’ll be effortless to manipulate him.

 

“You know, Will, I’m honestly amazed.” Hannibal holds his pencil up to the light, examines the point, and sets it down with a piercing clack that makes Will grit his teeth. “Your mind’s ability to preserve itself is remarkable. Especially for one at the utmost peak of their heat— it’s by no means an easy feat. Most would have succumbed within the first hour, but not you.” Hannibal tilts his head in a sharp incline, curiosity alight in his otherwise dead eyes.

 

“Nope.” Will smiles deviously and rolls over to face him, stretching out with feline grace as he kicks the soiled pillow aside. “I’m known for my resiliency— toss me into the flames and I’ll spring back up from the ashes, have to. Part of the job. But, I’ll admit, the novelty has worn off. Don’t you agree, _sweetheart?”_ It’s a calculated jab, but Will is disgusted the word has even left his tongue. He’s half-tempted to wash out his mouth in the adjacent facilities.

 

“I’m pleased we’ve decided on mutual terms of endearment, darling,” says Hannibal, a subtle tug of a smile on his lips, enough to convey his understanding. There’s a marked difference in his demeanor, he’s more accommodating, less uptight. Now that he doesn’t have to prove himself to a rival Alpha. And it could be that Will’s efforts in strategically dispersing calming pheromones over the course of those weightless hours haven’t been in vain. It’ll make Hannibal more susceptible to what he has to say.

 

Maybe now he’ll stick to the fucking plan. If he doesn’t, Will will make sure he’s aware of the consequences. _I know what you've been up to, Doctor._

 

“You know, now that you mention it, so is your restraint,” Will raises a dark, knowing eyebrow. “ _Remarkable_  .” He tilts his head, much in the same fashion, never taking his eyes off Hannibal. Will’s face drops as if on cue, taking on a convincing shade of concern. “  _Frederick_ , I think there’s something wrong with my Alpha.”

 

Rut blockers, courtesy of Matthew. Someone who’s managed to weasel his way into the facility. Chilton doesn’t hire Alphas, for good reason— not counting his insecurities. It’s a lawsuit in the making. A tilt on the scale in Will’s favor.

 

Hannibal doesn’t offer a response, just smiles. That same irritating smile, and Will wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s reserved for him. The man has already made it clear that Will is as disposable to him as the others; or is that an improvisation of their script? Whatever it is, it’s infuriating. Hannibal absorbs himself with his drawings again, tracing the outline with his thumb. Will is too far to tell what lies on the pages, doesn’t care. He continues doing what he does best, poking the beast.

 

“You’re my Alpha, aren’t you, sweetheart? Dr. Chilton thinks you’ll show me how to be a good Omega. Regrettably, he can’t, only a real Alpha can.” Will flits his eyes up with a wry smile and rustles through the contents of his welcome package, awaiting Hannibal’s next move.

 

Vanilla scented shampoo, pheromone enhancing body wash, toothpaste, a toothbrush, sanitary pads, and an assortment of cosmetics. For whatever reason. Truthfully, Will doesn’t have a clue what purpose the majority of them serve, much less how to apply them. He picks up the tube of lipstick, the only recognizable item of the bunch, and turns it around in his fingers. Would Hannibal want him if he did? If he stripped down to his pretty panties and painted his lips bright red for him? Right now, with the flames flickering anew and igniting across his skin in wild yet gradual leaps, it’s not such a bad idea. His hole flutters in agreement, and if Will didn’t know any better, he’d be convinced he’s pissed himself.

 

“ _I take it back_ _—_ what I said. _Everything,_ ” Will brings his slick thighs together before spreading them wide open and purrs, coyly baring his throat. “Hannibal. I need you. Please. Need you to show me how to be a good Omega. You’re the only one who can help me. Will you?”

 

Hannibal drums his fingers on the desk thoughtfully; mulling it over as Will lays anxious and waiting, his legs spread open, back arching like a whore. Will pushes the thought down as far as it will go, doesn’t want to think about how right his father was about him— or at all, really— as Hannibal scoots back in his chair and stands.

 

After a nerve-wracking silence, Hannibal turns, giving Will his undivided attention, “If that’s what you want— you did ask nicely. But, I need you to do something for me first, Will.”

 

Yes.

 

With his heart leaping out of his chest, Will swallows and watches Hannibal approach the bedside with sure and steady steps— with poise and purpose. Closer and closer until Will’s breath feels like it’s caught in his throat and every nerve in his body is reaching out to draw Hannibal in. What comes out next is something entirely unpredicted:

 

 _Yes, yes, yes._ " _Anything,"_  Will says in a hushed voice and the honest-to-god truth in that statement terrifies him.

 

At this, Will’s mind comes to a halt, stops working altogether and then springs back like a rubber band; he can almost hear the audible snap. No, it’s their treacherous bond speaking, Hannibal sabotaging his thoughts, and he isn’t thinking clearly. It has to be, because he’s never felt this way before, doesn’t want to feel this way; this foreign feeling blooming in his chest; those spiked, monstrous vines constricting his heart. Will looks away from Hannibal in a panic and to his own heaving chest, the beads of sweat crawling down his temples, his hands twitching to rip out the phantom tangle.

 

The approval from Hannibal is a quiet weight that settles across his nape and Will nearly howls with it. His body jolts, going taut with want and the knowledge that his mate is _right there._ With his knees pressed to the edge of the bed, Hannibal reaches down and plucks the tube of lipstick from Will’s loose fingers. He cups Will’s chin in his warm hand and forces him to raise his head as he uncaps the top with his thumb. Will obeys. What else is he supposed to do?

 

“Good boy.”

 

Those two words make Will’s skin crawl. Not with the discord of unpleasantness, but with a melody of frissoned pleasure.

 

“The truth, then,” says Hannibal, taking his other hand to tenderly brush through Will’s locks as he coaxes him to meet his eyes with a feather-light nudge. It’s strange, bears zero resemblance to their previous interaction, and Will is torn. But this is how it typically pans out, isn’t it? That game Hannibal likes to play. He delights in fracturing Will’s guard with tender touches and sweet words, striking when he’s most vulnerable. A predator through-and-through.

 

Still, Will leans into Hannibal against his better judgment.

 

It’s _nice…_ but at what cost?

 

“The truth…” Will repeats slow, studying Hannibal from under his lashes. He heaves a heavy sigh, closes his eyes briefly and opens them, relenting with a bitter chuckle. “Not like it matters now. No secrets between us, right?” He hesitates for a moment, then balls up his left fist and raises it, holds it parallel to the wall and allows the shadows to illustrate his confession. “Short version. I used to make shadows on the wall. Like so,” Will squeezes his fist and releases it, pumping it in a controlled rhythm to stimulate the beating of a heart— of Hannibal’s heart. “A steady fifty to fifty-five beats per minute, sometimes sixty. That’s how I knew. Not for the thrill. No. It takes a considerable amount of exertion to move a body. I could predict what you were doing and when as if—” Will’s voice lowers to a haunted whisper, as faint and opaque as the heart-shaped shadow on the wall. “ _As if I were the one doing it…_ ”

 

Will exhales through his nose, a hollow, shaken sound, and lowers his fist to his side with a dejected plop. “So… now you know. Do what you will with that information.” He shrugs.

 

Hannibal’s gaze lingers on the empty space on the wall, rapt with fascination. “You imprinted?”

 

Will knits his brows together and opens his mouth to speak, then closes it in scornful disbelief. As if it wasn’t fucking obvious, but of course Hannibal would want his public admission on the record. In Chilton’s hands, there’s no telling where it will end up. Will has a sneaking suspicion, however, that it’ll pop up on a certain website— along with the other drivel.

 

“Yes,” Will says caustically, swatting Hannibal’s hand away from him like a fly. “Do you need me to spell it out for you? It’s no wonder you got caught.”

 

Like a flip of a switch, Hannibal grips Will painfully by his curls and yanks his head forward, holding the end of the lipstick to his lips. Will winces and parts them for him as if in a trance. And he’s so touch-starved, so happy to accept whatever Hannibal dishes out. Whether it be pain, pleasure, it doesn’t matter. His traitorous body craves it as much as it does air. Their mutual bond is an unstoppable gravitational pull and Hannibal is the only force necessary to sustain him.

 

“You were the one that put me here, were you not?” says Hannibal. “Not by the FBI or my perceived lack of competence but rather your sweet, yearning heart— which, by the way, have you regained any of those pesky memories, dear?” He applies even, precise strokes of red like a paintbrush to the canvas of Will’s pouted lips. _Has he done this before?_ Jealousy buries itself like a knife in Will’s chest.

 

Once pleased with his work, Hannibal pats the bottom of Will’s chin, and Will brings his lips together in vague understanding, smoothing and rubbing them together, blending out the color. “One or two, maybe,” Will says with a slow nod, his voice cracking as rapidly as his resolve. He clears his throat in embarrassment. “I-I’m, uh—” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, clumsy and barely audible. “ _Do you think I’m pretty?_ ”

 

Hannibal pauses as if to consider, recaps the tube, and quirks a small smile at him. “I think you’re unique.”

 

Will’s face falls. It’s not the answer he was fishing for. He doesn’t want to be fucking unique. People have berated him for that his entire life. He just wants… simplicity, a sense of fucking normality in this twisted scenario. Which is laughable, really. Because the moment Hannibal bonded him, he should have known that was an impossibility. That doesn’t define them. They’re both too messed up and complicated. Two existing abnormalities impossible to define by any normal standards. Why else would they be here? Rotting at the lowest level of a basement. Together.

 

There’s some comfort found there; a perplexing satisfaction at knowing how truly perfect they are for each other. To the Omegan part of him, at least, and he’s beginning to agree.

 

The bed dips. Will blinks up at Hannibal. One knee descends on the mattress, a hand lands on the opposite side of his head, and Will sucks in a sharp breath. He pushes himself up on his elbows, ducks through Hannibal’s arms and scrambles away to the far side of the bed. The panic seizes Will’s lungs, even as his instincts beg him to submit, roll over, and yield. “N-no,” Will stammers, despite every nerve in his body screaming yes. “I thought you said no.”

 

“Oh, Will,” says Hannibal, that same exasperated fondness curving around his words like silk. It’s a lie and they both know it.

 

Will doesn’t get very far. With Hannibal on the bed with him, there’s nowhere left for him to run. He’s dragged back, wrestled and forced into the mattress like something to be used because it’s what Will _wants_. He relishes in the violence, this game of predator and prey, it’s all part of the chase— a means to such sweet, rewarding ends. Will rolls onto his stomach and swings out his arms, digs his nails into the pillows for purchase as Hannibal’s erection digs into his ass, and yowls piteously. Hannibal responds with a deep, guttural growl and drives his hips down without restraint. His cock presses hot between Will’s cheeks as he snares him in place with both knees on either side of his hips and Will instinctively arches his ass up with an eager quiver. Hannibal’s entire weight crushes Will at once, pushing the air out of him in a ragged sob as the man snags his long fingers in Will’s curls and callously shoves his face into the mattress.

 

Hannibal leans down, lips brushing Will’s ear, his chest flush against his back. “You’re alone because you’re unique. You’ve been alone all this time, haven’t you? Chasing shadows suspended in the dimmest corners of your mind— no shame in that.”

 

“I’m as alone as you are,” Will mutters darkly, going still.

 

The tightness in his eyes returns, that telltale itch that signifies the shift, the tip-off before the world plunges into that bright and burning hue. Hannibal’s warmth radiates around him and on him— hot, boiling pressure that makes the Omega in him keen with indescribable pleasure. Will resists. He howls again, a weak, muffled, and broken sound that has Hannibal clamping onto his nape with a snarl, reopening his mark. And that’s all it takes for the world to shimmer. A halo of golden fire engulfing blue, his pupils dilating with a needle-sharp twinge, and Will clings to the ledge. He’ll cling there for as long as he’s able, but—

 

He’s falling.

 

Hannibal’s teeth sink too deep, too sharp and Will spasms with a wet, hiccup of a sob. “No… please…”

 

Yes. _God, yes._

 

His pathetic pleas spur another throaty rumble from Hannibal as he thrusts down, one hand tight in his hair, the other crushing down on his upper arm, keeping Will firmly rooted beneath him.

 

Will whines low, and pants, body going slack with submission as Hannibal establishes his dominance, mounting him as nature intended. And it’s just as good as the first time Hannibal marked him, if not better. The same heavenly rush of bonding hormones, and Hannibal’s dark, viscous substance invading and penetrating his core. Euphoria burns bright— downward, and Will comes with a weak jerk of his legs, feels his tiny cock spurt with hot eager pulses and his hole clench tight.

 

Will releases a loud, strangled moan. “Ahh-alpha!”

 

Recovering from the aftershocks of his sudden orgasm, Will shudders with a small, blissful sigh as his pheromones pour forth into the air; a layer so thick he can taste himself. Sweet and bitter, and that coppery tinge that screams of Hannibal.

 

Hannibal dislodges his teeth. “Is this what you wanted, Will?” His short, heated breaths sting sweet against Will’s abused nape, but it soon dissipates. Hannibal laps at it with slow, possessive drags of his tongue that make Will melt.

 

Will rubs his cheeks into the sheets in contentment. _This is what I wanted, isn’t it?_ Why keep denying the inevitable? _Why keep denying myself the pleasure?_ Is he doing this to punish Hannibal or himself? It’s hard to differentiate between the two.

 

Will purrs and gives a small nod in agreement.

 

Hannibal adjusts his weight. “Of course it is, darling boy. No need to deny yourself the pleasure.”

 

He nuzzles Will and turns him over onto his back with a husky purr of his own as he aggressively scent-marks him. To which Will cringes and tries his best to recoil into the mattress. Not very successfully. It’s not long before he lifts his chin with a low, breathy moan, allows Hannibal to impatiently nudge his way into the crook of his neck and tease his scent gland with insistent, wet sucks. The way Hannibal rakes his teeth across his flesh, not quite piercing but still prickling, has Will shuttering his eyes and dropping his mouth open with a wordless cry. _Hannibal is right._    

 

Hannibal is initiating play-mating. Although, in this case, perhaps it’s more accurate that the word _play_ be dropped entirely. Will is inexperienced, but he knows what comes next, understands the natural order of things. Though, most of his knowledge comes from porn. Rough, disgusting porn that always left him swimming in guilt and ended in scalding hot showers.

 

Will brushes his fingers down the center of Hannibal’s neck and wraps his hand around his throat, squeezing once with morbid fascination. But he doesn’t want to break the bond. Not anymore.

 

Hannibal stares down in wicked delight.

 

The steady vibration of Hannibal’s relaxed pulse hammers in Will’s grip, together in the same key as his rapid staccato. A new burst of pheromones seeps from Will’s pores; sweet, hot want erupting at the same time the image of the deputy sheriff’s neck spurting with blood plays like a projection in his darkened pupils. A fountain of blood, with Will in the middle, and the gentle murmur of a stilling heart.

 

Will gives a small, unsuppressed shiver of pleasure at the memory, his skin prickling with fire, power, and above all: desire.

 

“Show me,” Will slurs, lucid and fading. Stumbling. Poised at the edge of a re-surging wave of heat. “What are your intentions, Hannibal?”

 

“Our connection in a physical sense should not exist, and yet it does. Originally, I didn’t intend to bond you,” says Hannibal, taking a moment to breathe him in, and Will must fucking reek of slick right now. Slick, cum, and who knows what else. Sweat, probably— he’s long overdue a shower. But whatever bitter-sweet components his pheromones resemble, Hannibal seems enraptured by it; his nose instinctively gravitates to Will’s scent gland. Will scents him back with short, desperate puffs of breath. It’s still not enough.

 

“No, no. Shut up,” Will snarls, suppressing the vicious urge to bite, to sink his teeth into the column of Hannibal’s neck. “No take backs.” He grins sharply and runs his tongue along his fangs— far duller than Hannibal’s, but sufficient for their intended purpose.

 

If Hannibal thinks he’s getting out of it this time, he’s not. Will won’t let him. Not this time.

 

Will has him right where he wants him.

 

He’s the Omega who locked Hannibal up, chained him down, and put him in a cage, that way he’d always know where to find him when he needed him. Not for Jack Crawford nor out of a sense of moral obligation. Will placed himself in the line of sight, maybe not intentionally, but through his own selfishness. Because if Will couldn’t have him, he’d make damn sure nobody else could.

 

And, well. He really fucking _needs_ Hannibal.

 

“Please. Just shut up and… do something about this already. C’mon. Fuck me. You know you want to— I know you want to. _Please, Alpha._ ” Will arches upward and moans wantonly as he shoves his hand between Hannibal’s legs and palms his dick, finding it hard and responsive under his touch. Will lets out a drawn-out whine as he squeezes experimentally at the sensitive base of his knot, and Hannibal jerks his hips forward with a faint growl. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Will mutters with a harsh pant, moving to pull the elastic of Hannibal’s pants down with an impatient tug. “Fucking breed me. Knock me up and give me your pups, so we can— can…”

 

Hannibal halts him in his tracks by mashing their lips together, and Will surges up with a trembling gasp. “Mmn…”

 

Wrapping both arms around Hannibal’s neck, Will bites down on his lower lip and bucks up his hips to meet him. A persuasive prod of Hannibal’s tongue has him opening up. They slide their tongues together, hot and wet, teeth clicking together with the ferocity of their need. Each thrust of Hannibal’s skilled tongue forces desperate, needy whimpers from Will’s nose. During the kiss, Hannibal shifts, places his legs between Will’s, and Will automatically spreads them open for him, hooking one leg around his trim waist. Their bodies mold together perfectly.

 

“Will,” says Hannibal, his voice rough as he draws away from the kiss with a soft smack, residual smears of lipstick stretched across his lips as he speaks, hair falling messily into his eyes. Will hums softly as he licks the blood from his lips, eyes half-lidded, overcome by the debauched image in front of him. Hannibal shuts his own in response, struggling to compose himself. Like simply looking at Will, lips bright red and kiss-swollen, his cheeks ruddy with heat and dewy with the pearly sweat of hormones is enough to send him into a rut. Will’s Omegan side swells with pride and excitement, vibrating with a visceral, animal-like urge to be owned. His only primary goal to mate and breed.

 

“Alpha,” Will purrs and gives Hannibal a heat-drunk smile, going pliable and limp as he bares his neck in submission. Relinquishing his hard-fought self-control. It’s okay, his Alpha will take care of him now.

 

Hannibal growls deep in his throat, gives Will a sharp nip above his collarbone, and pushes himself up to kneel between his legs, ripping his pants straight down his slick, trembling thighs. Will grunts and pushes his hips up to allow Hannibal better access. It’s an awkward tangle of arms and legs, but with Hannibal’s help, Will eventually kicks off his pants the rest of the way. Exposed in nothing but his pink panties, his own lips smeared in red, and Hannibal racking his predatory gaze over him, Will loses the ability to breathe, think, react. Pinned in place. Hannibal’s pretty Omega. Rationality slips away as the sweat crawls at the back of Will’s skull like tiny pricks, pooling at the small of his back and armpits. The slick seeps through his underwear, his small cock straining at the tight cotton, begging for Hannibal to touch him. To taste him. Will writhes with a half-whimper turned howl, hot and leaking with arousal from every hole in his body.

 

Hannibal grips his thigh, sending an ecstatic thrill up Will’s spine. “That’s not all. There’s something you should know. I had meant to keep this a secret from you.” He trails his fingers up to the hem of Will’s panties before stopping. And Will, chest heaving, hips arching of their own volition in an unspoken plea for more, cranes his head down to watch as he swallows loudly. The tendrils of heat and want vaporize the icy chill of fear and embarrassment from thirty years of inexperience on the spot. Hannibal dips his fingers past the hem and pulls them away with an audible snap on his hip. “I’ve gone back and forth— several choices, each with many-sides. To watch you plunge blindly into the depths profound suffering or to offer you a simple lifeline. You’ve inconvenienced me, Will. You took my freedom from me. In ways that neither of us could have predicted.”

 

He snares Will’s jaw in his hand with a severe expression. “Are you listening?”

 

Will nods vigorously. The words slip through the cracks between his fingers, but Will understands at a basic level that what his Alpha is commanding is his compliance. And he’d do anything to please his Alpha, that much he knows.

 

Will’s voice trembles with a small, “ _Please._ ”

 

Hannibal’s hand connects with his cheek and jump-starts the motor in his head into something passable. Functional. Will’s teeth rattle in his jaw, his whole body withdrawing into the mattress from the force.

 

Hannibal tips his head and narrows his eyes at Will. “I need you coherent for this, Will. Do you understand?”

 

Will hisses, twists beneath him, and snags Hannibal across the face, adding to the growing collection of nail marks decorating his austere face. Hannibal merely angles his jaw and draws his lips together tight, but it’s clear to Will that his patience is growing thin.

 

Bringing an unsteady hand up to his mouth and running it over his lips, Will checks for traces of blood and nearly does a double take when it comes back red, but not from blood. He wipes his hand off on the sheets in disgust— disgust in himself and disgust for allowing himself to willing step into Hannibal’s trap.

 

"Asshole." Will rubs his cheek and glares up at Hannibal, his eyes involuntarily watering from the pain and the cramps assaulting his insides. “Make up your mind. Do you want to give me a concussion or do you want to fuck me? Don’t forget. Help is just a buzz away,” he spits. “I’ll ask Chilton to send me a real Alpha. Like Ma— ah… nngh…”

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Hannibal. He jams two of his fingers into Will’s mouth, presses down hard and applies pressure to Will’s tongue, stimulating his Omegan sucking reflex. Will moans and whimpers around his thick fingers, feels his eyes go back, and sucks noisily, hungrily sliding his lips up and down his wet digits. Will watches Hannibal beneath his lashes as he swirls his tongue around and fucking hates to imagine what he must look like right now. Breathless. Spit slipping down his chin, lips red and glistening. Greedily working Hannibal’s fingers like they’re the real thing. Hannibal using his mouth… if he shuts his eyes it’s easy to imagine fingers replaced by his thick cock. Heavy and— and—  _fuck_ , if this goes on he’s going to come. Again. Hannibal thankfully decides at that moment to remove them with a loud, wet pop that makes Will's cheeks go scarlet with shame. His state of… undress doesn’t help.

 

“Now that I have your attention,” begins Hannibal, he pauses to lick Will’s spit from his own damn fingers like the last remainders of batter from a cake. Will grimaces at the thought. “The truth is, we haven’t bonded. Not fully. It’s not physically possible for me to bond you, nor anyone else at this facility, if that’s any relief to you— Frederick has developed preventative measures in the event of this scenario.”

 

Will blinks and gapes dumbly at Hannibal, it’s the best he can manage. “What?”

 

“We haven't bonded,” Hannibal repeats, jams his thumb right past Will’s lips and presses down on one of his fangs for emphasis. “A bond-blocking agent applied to the enamel of the teeth upon arrival. To yours and mine.”

 

Will bites down with a growl, then releases him. “If it’s not possible, then how do you explain—  _wait_ , are you messing with me?” He scoffs. “Christ. This is getting tiring and frankly, you’re boring me, Hannibal. To death. Check that one off on your list.”

 

It’s more believable than Will would like to admit, and it would explain why his voice is so wobbly, unreliable at the worst times. It would explain a lot of things. Alphas already have the inherent ability to push their weight around but for Will’s vocal cords to complete the shift, they’d have to bond. Fully. Otherwise, it’s like trying to play a half-strung violin. They haven't bonded, or so Hannibal says, but this certainly feels like something. That’s irrefutable. A half-bond? Or maybe he’s just fucking playing games again. How can Will trust him?

 

“I’m afraid not. How versed are you on the concept of true mates, Will?”

 

Will blinks slow, and with a great amount of effort, barks out a laugh. “Uh, no.”

 

Hannibal’s face is devoid of any amusement, he appears worn.

 

_True mates. Really?_

 

With some exasperation and a muted growl, Will looks past Hannibal and at the spinning ceiling, gritting his teeth at the flickering red lights and nausea turning his stomach. His uterus feels like it’s pulverizing him from the inside, bones and all. Splintering and fraying away, much like his will power. His head is killing him. Will thinks he’s convulsing, but it’s too late; he’s suspended, disconnected from his skin.

 

Hannibal snaps his fingers inches from Will’s face.

 

*

 

Upon Will’s initial warp into consciousness, he hears voices. Disjointed, suspended and distended in a fragile white space where Will aimlessly floats. It’s the hot prick of a needle jamming into the meat of his thigh that drags him back down to the earth’s atmosphere. Weak and disoriented, Will whimpers and jerks his leg in pain, trying to will his eyes open. When the first person who materializes into existence is Chilton, Will groans and tries to roll away onto his side-- his first reaction is to cover himself-- but his body refuses to move. It feels like millions of fire ants swarming his body, red and blistering with heat. Will stares upward and blinks as the room struggles to reorient itself. His eyes have magnified; the lights burn too bright, and it reminds of him of that shitty lighting in the toilets at Quantico. Fucking floodlights.

 

“What is it now?” Will murmurs, momentarily clamping his eyes shut against the ruthless round and round of the world as it spins on its side. The way Chilton looks at him, openly ogling the space between his legs, doubles his urge to vomit. “… I want my Alpha.” He’ll play good if only to get Chilton as quick and far away from him as possible. Which is a lot easier said than done.

 

“Of course you do.” Chilton’s eyes linger downward before slowly trailing up the soft slopes of Will’s body as he withdraws the needle, and Will likens him to a leech, a disgusting parasitic leech. “You were right, Will. There was something wrong with your Alpha, but don’t worry. We’ve rectified the problem.”

 

“Oh? How kind of you.” Will slurs. A fuzzy warmth settles into his limbs; countless tiny fireworks exploding beneath his skin, followed by a sudden unexplainable burst of restless energy that makes him fidget. Chilton’s form goes from a washed out glare to a vivid golden haze. “Wh-what,” Will takes a gasping breath and swallows hard. “—did you give me?”

 

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Will. It’s just a bit of an energy boost,” says Chilton with a suggestive grin as he waves the empty syringe at him. “Our very own synthesized stimulant for Omegas. Essentially, Omegan catnip. Can’t have you passing out on us. Or _worse_. You’re going to need it for what comes next. Trust me.”

 

 _Great._ Will coughs and cranes his head to the side. He scents Hannibal before he sees him and knows he isn’t far. A good thing, because Will isn’t sure how well he’d take being separated from Hannibal at such a critical stage of his heat. Hannibal is against the back wall, encased in a set of full-body restraints. Positioned near the entrance with their taser guns trained on Hannibal are two of Chilton’s guards. Something is alarmingly off about Hannibal, however; none of his characteristic composure, but in its stead a wild glimmer in his enlarged pupils that sends Will’s heart pounding, and his scent. _God, his fucking scent._ His scent for one should not be this mouthwatering, dense and unrestrained enough to make Will want to spread his legs for him and present on the spot with Chilton there or not. Because _Hannibal is in a rut._ Well and truly in a rut. Will breathes as much of that heavenly scent in as possible and releases a loud, trilling purr. Anything to drown out the disgusting odor of Chilton’s cheap imitation of Alpha pheromones.

 

If Chilton wasn’t so preoccupied with him, he’d have shoved his hand down his panties and fingered his slit to prepare himself for his Alpha. Make Hannibal watch—  chained and muzzled like the savage hound he is, gazing helplessly as Will fucks himself open with two and three fingers to take his cock. Will feels his nipples peak with excitement, his breath quickening. He’s so wet, so fucking horny for it. The sooner Chilton leaves, the sooner Hannibal can stretch him deep on his knot. Seat himself down to the base and make him scream. It’s all Will can think about.

 

Even this moderate distance between them is agonizing— a depressingly unfulfilled void eating away at his gut, growing larger and more voracious in its need. While the restlessness brought on by the drugs continues its peak, the urge to play, nest, and fuck is like a shrill whisper, impossible to ignore. Attention now fixed on Hannibal, Will pants out and mewls desperately, rolling around on his back as an invitation to finish what they started. Hannibal responds with a chuff of appreciation that sends Will scrambling up to the edge of the bed on his hands and knees, his hips shifting from side to side in his willingness to mate. A round of snickering from the guards and smug encouragement from Chilton kicks him back to the present, and Will tenses his muscles so hard they might rupture as he tries to re-center himself. With a slight grimace, he draws his tongue back into his mouth. Each time his self-control skids off into the distance; harder and difficult to reach.

 

Shakier than he’d like, Will takes a deep breath, then exhales.

 

“You’re sick, Frederick,” Will hisses, sitting back on his haunches and covering himself with a blanket, revulsion profusely oozing from his words. “You wish you could fuck me, don’t you? But you won’t. Better to watch instead. You know why? You’re too insecure. Afraid I’ll laugh, afraid you won’t be enough— because you and I both know a beta could never satisfy me. It’s stated in the first chapter of your book, isn’t it? I need a big, strong Alpha like Hannibal with a fat fucking knot to put me in my place,” he says, throwing Hannibal a toothy smile. Will can certainly vouch for the authenticity of _that._ “You don’t have that. You never will. No matter how many times you douse yourself in cheap, dollar store pheromones. No Omega will ever want you. It’s just not in their nature. And why settle for less?” Raising his brows, his smile twists into one of derision. “Wanna know how I feel, Dr. Chilton? Tell me about your mother and I might consider sharing.”

 

Being good is easier said than done.

 

Will’s lost count the number of times he’s been slapped in a day. Chilton’s hand collides with his face and echoes throughout the cell, accompanied by a bloodthirsty growl from the opposite side of the room. Hannibal propels himself forward, chains rattling, his restraints pulling taut around him as the guards shout orders at him, tightening their petrified grips on the tasers. Again, no guards for Will. It’s true, he’s not exactly in any condition to put up a fight, but it’s belittling. And not just hearing, but feeling his Alpha in a state of physical distress makes his hackles raise, his overprotective instincts going haywire. If it comes down to it, he’ll do anything necessary for his Alpha. _Anything._ Even kill. He can already taste Chilton’s blood gushing along his tongue, and Will’s never wanted to kill somebody as much as he does at this moment. Will’s taken down three Alphas with law enforcement training at once, three betas are an absolute joke. Chilton especially. The man is all bark and no bite whatsoever.

 

_It’s like they haven’t learned their lesson._

 

Will forms a tight line with lips and glares harshly at Chilton.

 

Chilton laughs, short and scathing. “What makes you think I’d want _you_? Don’t flatter yourself. The only thing that makes you special is that breeding hole you’ve got tucked away between your legs, you little slut.”

 

_Ah. There it is. His true colors slipping through all those fine-tuned cracks._

 

“I must have struck a nerve,” says Will with a sneer. “What was it you said when I first woke up? Something along the lines of _‘I always knew you were special, Will.’_ Change your mind all of a sudden?”

 

“Besides your sweet smelling cunt, there’s absolutely nothing special about you,” spits Chilton as he snatches him up around the neck, delighting in the way Will droops below him. Oblivious to the growing danger behind him and the slight flicker of a smile on Will's face. “You aren’t the first Omega Hannibal’s tasted and you won’t be the last. Did you know, Will? Every 24 hours we rotate the Alpha/Omega couples in the facility— most high-risk intakes like yourself get tossed alongside with Hannibal to hasten the process of breaking them in before being sent upstairs with the general population. Gives them a good scare, an easy way to ensure good behavior. Hannibal didn’t slaughter any of them, it’s just a lie we tell everyone who waltzes through those doors.” He jams his cold and filthy fingers into Will’s scent gland and twists them, dragging a feeble cry of pain from him. “And you believed every word of it, didn’t you?”

 

“But don’t worry,” Chilton continues, high on his temporary power trip. “I have no plans to move you now that I know you’ve imprinted on him. It’s beneficial for me to observe the effects of an unstable bond that should never have formed in the first place. Do try to remember this, Will. You’re not his first Omega or his last. That mark will fade, and when it does, you’ll wish Hannibal had slaughtered you instead.”

 

Will’s surroundings teeter as static crackles in his ears, grating and torturous in its persistence. Why would Hannibal and Chilton both lie? They have no reason to. The truth in Chilton’s sharp tone embeds itself deep, a reminder and a cutting betrayal. The room closes in on him as he struggles to breathe; panic and dread cuts through him. Their bond fading away into oblivion and Hannibal latching himself onto the next Omega is too horrible a thought, Will would rather die before that happens. He’s going to fucking vomit. Immobilized by the enormous pressure around his neck, Will’s eyes flutter with a moist gathering of tears. How could he be so stupid? Hannibal's never had any designs for him, he’s simply playing the long game and Will is just a pawn in his quest for victory. And he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. How many Omegas before Will has he fucked and knotted? How many have clung to him with the same soul-shaking intimacy brought on by their passing bond? How many have laid with him in this very same bed and trembled with heat? How many? _HOW MANY?_

 

_“You’re just a useless fucking whore. You’d make a good second. Not pretty enough for a first.”_

 

_No, stop it. Please. I want to wake up. This isn't happening._

 

"Red suits you." Chilton rips the blanket away from him, pulls a pocket mirror from his suit and holds it directly to his face. “Take a good look, Will. This is what you are.”

 

The person opposite of him is in the shape of a spherical, unrecognizable wreck— transformed into everything he’s worked so hard to deny, and Will can’t bear the sight that greets him but neither can he look away. Subdued and collared, hair curling around his face in wild rings, lipstick smeared, cheeks plump with hormones and alight with heat, fat tears gleaming in his golden eyes. Forming from his cheekbone to the right corner of his lip is the beginning of a bruise, heavily ornamenting his neck are multiple suck marks with teeth impressions. The same as those battered Omegas he's made lesson plans from. Carelessly explaining the flaws of bite mark analysis to his students while secretly relieving in the knowledge it wasn’t him. Will is face to face with his worst nightmare. Because now, he’s the complete fucking picture of a useless Omega whose only purpose in life is to spread his legs for an Alpha who doesn’t give a shit about him and never will.

 

Will sobs in earnest and squeezes his eyes shut to block out the image. The tears fall, but not for long.

 

Wallowing in self-pity won’t change anything, and it certainly won’t get results. Fuck playing along, who cares if it creates a setback the size of an impassible gap— a lifetime sentence or not, Will can’t live without Hannibal. He’s already tried that. Why not ensure his extended stay? Make sure neither of them leaves. Hannibal deserves to rot, and Will won’t let him slip away that easily— won't let him use him as a fucking inanimate tool for his escape plan. It’s not fair. None of this is fucking fair. With the bulk of his emotions and memories collapsing under their own weight, Will throws his head back, summoning the most ear-splitting distress call he can muster. Anger and hurt that’s spent years burning him away from the inside catapults itself from his vocal cords in a frenzy. The mirror splinters down the middle from the frequency, and Chilton drops it, stepping away to cover his ears.

 

And with that single crack, it all descends into chaos better suited as a fever dream.

 

Distress calls of this magnitude are rare, only a handful of Omegas are able to harness it, but Will’s never settled for normal. That accounts for something special. Will is able to pinpoint the exact moment Hannibal’s self-control flies out of the window by the shift in energy from their volatile bond. There’s nothing holding it back; no walls, just pure ungoverned _feeling._ Hannibal joins in with a blood-curdling howl that covers Will head to toe in a rush of goosebumps. Their vibrations merge into a devastating song.

 

“Guards!” yells Chilton, barely audible over the force of Will and Hannibal combined. The alarm goes off overhead, contributing to the cacophony of sounds.

 

Will’s never heard an Alpha produce a noise like Hannibal does. Didn’t even think he had the ability to howl with how mechanical he operates, but he’s in a rut. He’d howl for any Omega in Will’s position, wouldn’t he? Hannibal snaps through his chains with a snarl like something brittle, the straps fall with even less of an effort. Will, not one to squander an opportunity when he sees one, doubles his own and works his throat as far as it can go, upping the pitch. It’s exceedingly cathartic. One of the guards drops his gun in the commotion and the other, a newbie by the looks of it, shakes so hard he misses his shot. As Hannibal rushes the guards, Will takes the mirror from his lap and slams the heel of his palm into it, knocking free a decent sized shard of glass. Unaware, Chilton turns his back to him, believing Hannibal a larger threat than a scorned Omega, which is a mistake. Not the first he’s made. Will lunges to his feet and locks his left arm around Chilton, pressing the shard to his throat with his right.

 

Hell hath no fury.

 

Under different circumstances, Will might deem the whole situation comical. Here he is about to slit a man’s throat in nothing but his slick fucking panties like one of those horrible slasher movies with scantily clad Omegas on the cover. The prospect of taking a life once frightened him at every damn turn, but now? Will is perhaps partially concerned, leaning more toward _less_ concerned, to find it doesn’t shake him in the slightest.  

 

Chilton goes rigid with fear and recoils against him in horror when Hannibal snaps the necks of one the guards, producing a sick cracking sound that pleases Will more than it should. “Will, please—”

 

“Thanks for the energy boost,” Will grins, eyes wild with adrenaline, his breaths short and erratic. He presses the glass deeper as he licks the sweat perspiring on Chilton’s jaw. Making a face, he spits on the floor beside their feet. “You taste as repugnant as you smell.”

 

“Will, don’t do this,” pleads Chilton, all too quick to change his tune now that their roles have reversed. A sniveling coward is what he is. “You’re not a killer.”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Will growls, tightening his grip so hard the edges cut into his hand. Blood slips through his fingers and down his wrist, but dangerously high as he is on a mix of stimulants and rut pheromones, Will doesn’t feel a thing.

 

Keeping him in place, Will forces Chilton to watch as Hannibal descends on the final guard, incapacitating him with one swift blow of his head to the metal door frame of their cell. One deadly thud and he goes slumping to the ground like a slab of meat. Hannibal stands in the pile of bodies and inclines his neck, inhaling deeply. An Omega’s heat pheromones are a siren’s call to a rutting Alpha, and Hannibal is no different from the others, no matter how well-mannered he presents himself. He turns to Will like a man possessed, chest heaving, his eyes glowing red with one singular goal looping in his animal brain. With his broken cuffs hanging from his wrists, muscles rippling, and his mask still secured in place, he looks absolutely feral— every bit of Will’s wet dream. Will’s knees go weak as his body flushes with mind-numbing arousal, his hole throbs and aches; the Omega in him enraptured by Hannibal’s display of dominance; mesmerized by the sight of his superior mate. This is the best courting gift Will could ever ask for from his Alpha.

 

Likewise, Will is having a huge amount of difficulty sticking to the task at hand with the suffocating aphrodisia of purebred Alpha hammering against his nose. Overcome by the million tiny ripples of pleasure dancing through him at once, Will hides his face in Chilton’s shoulder and bites down a whine, the floor sways unsteadily below him. With how potent and fertile Hannibal smells, he’s guaranteed to knock him up on the first try. And Will wants it so bad. Needs Hannibal to breed him hard; fuck him and knot him until he doesn’t even know his own name.

 

Chilton is the only thing keeping him upright, stopping him from presenting himself in the middle of the room. Will presses his thighs together with a wiggle and moans at the pressure it creates. When that's not enough, he brings his arm from around Chilton to palm his hard little dick, sneaking his finger down to tease his damp hole over the cotton of his panties. "Alpha... Alpha..."

 

God, he can’t… can’t control it anymore. Can’t… need…

 

Forgotten is Hannibal’s treacherous double-dealings, including his promise of Chilton’s well-deserved demise. He feels delirious with heat. His mind and body separate with an electrifying impact, splitting him straight down the middle. The Omegan part of him successfully wrestles control of his brain after its repeated strenuous attempts, chanting _breed me, breed me, breed me._ Will’s eyes haze over, his body prickling with sweat and hot, carnal desire. He shoves his hand down the front of his panties, fingers his hole and gathers up a copious amount of slick, rubbing it down his chest and into his skin to better attract his mate. He feels fucking hysterical. The deep, wet throbbing at his messy hole nearly sends him crumpling to his knees. His heartbeat pounds against his temples and fills his ears as the heat pervades every inch of his body. _Hot, too hot..._

Will’s lost the fight, but so has Hannibal.

 

"Alpha!" Will’s voice rushes out in an agonizing gasp, his grip on the shard faltering. Chilton remains motionless, which is either terribly smart or terribly dumb of him. If he runs, he risks the chance of arousing Hannibal’s predator instinct, and if he stays— well, either way, he’s dead. Will lifts his head and cries out behind Chilton, the cramps in his lower abdomen ruthless in their continuous onslaught. "Fuck me… please… I ca-can't take it anymore! Breed me, Alpha!" he whines, high and needy. "Help me! It burns... help me... please..."

 

Hannibal looks from Will to Chilton and back again, a labored expression on his face as if he can’t decide whether to strike down Chilton where he stands and claim his rightful prize or allow his mate to do the honors. His keen and calculating intelligence has long left him, reducing him to a wild bloodhound with a one-track mind. But even suffering from a rut, he still can’t shred that insatiable curiosity he holds for Will; a proven inconvenience. Chilton utilizes this distraction to ever so carefully reach into his pocket, wise not to make sudden movements, and sets off Will’s shock collar with a quick push of his thumb. Will jolts with a scream, his capacity for regulating his emotions perished alongside his self-control; in his current state his senses have multiplied, and the shock it produces is excruciating, indescribable _pain_. As he goes down, seized by violent convulsions, he thrusts the sharp end of the fragment into Chilton’s shoulder, writhing and yowling desperately for his Alpha to ease his pain. Chilton groans in shock. And as he clutches the place the glass embeds itself in a frantic bid to assess the wound’s severity, a muddled patch of blood seeps through the coarse fabric of his suit. Terror grips Chilton, who shuffles backward along the confinement. Hannibal takes a fatal stride toward him; but luckily for him, changes course at the last minute, determining Will his main priority. Chilton slips from the room and slams the door behind him with an explosive bang.

 

Hannibal drops to his knees beside him, and Will reaches out with a blood tarnished hand.

 

*

 

Every movement is unsteady and without constant, jerky and intermittent like the pages in a flip book. The taxi driver sneaks an occasional odd glance at him in the rearview mirror, curious what the hell Will is doing heading to Baltimore in freezing weather in only a jacket throw over a plain t-shirt and boxers. The question hangs but goes unspoken, and Will intends to keep it that way. He still hasn’t worked out a way to justify it to himself. Even harder to explain is the gun shoved in the waistband of his boxers, hidden just out of sight behind his jacket, for the sake of not raising questions. Will watches the world blur past him in a neon string of lights from the backseat window in silence; a city steeped in darkness. He closes his eyes briefly, lulled by the movement of the car and the purr of the motor. When he next opens them, he’s greeted by a door. More accurately, pandora’s box— because once that door opens, there’s no going back. A risk he's willing to take in his quest to confirm whether what he feels is genuine or some terrible fluke. To prove how wrong he is.

 

Will raises his fist in a robotic motion and brings it down on the solid wood one and three times, sluggish in noticing the doorbell off to the side. Since he stepped barefoot into the snow, his vision has reduced itself to a narrow tunnel with the sole mission of leading him straight to his doom. Will extends his arm out to ring the doorbell. He's halted midway by the door opening in a rush of warm air, reminding him how fucking cold it is. Will shivers and wraps his arms around himself, breath expelling from his lungs in a white puff. He brings his gaze up from the doorknob to Lecter’s trademark eyes— the shade of freshly spilled blood— and parts his lips in wonder. His scent is _amazing;_ Will’s favorite smells, even ones he hadn’t been aware of until now, condensed into one alluring package. A pure-blooded Alpha. Just being in his presence makes Will want to supplicate at his feet. More so knowing what he's capable of.

 

Lecter’s polite smile falters into cold uncertainty as he surveys the area behind Will with clinical suspicion. “I don’t receive many guests at this hour. Can I help you?”

 

_He recognizes me. Of course he would._

 

There's a sense of pride that goes with capturing the attention of an Alpha of Lecter’s rank and status, no matter how insignificant and short-lived it is. Without a word, Will takes a step forward, then pushes his way past the door frame, elbowing the man when he refuses to budge. Lecter moves aside with a frown, particularly offended by the wet footprints Will treks on his pristine floor and the sheer disregard he exhibits for common courtesy. But Will isn't here for a lesson in manners, and Lecter must know the true reason for his visit. The floor is soon forgotten.

 

“Well. Come in,” he says humorlessly, shutting the door behind them and planting himself in front of Will’s last chance of escape as he twists the lock. It's a deliberate threat. And it’s true, Will might never leave. Not in one piece, at least. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

“No,” Will replies, turning to face him. He darts his eyes unevenly around the room, trying but failing to initiate eye contact. Fed up, he holds his bottom lip with his teeth and addresses the man's sweater collar, resulting in a curious tilt of an eyebrow from Lecter. “But I think you know exactly who I am. Don't feign ignorance, Doctor. We’ve both done our research.”

 

“Is that so?” Lecter smiles, giving Will a small glimpse of his razor-sharp fangs. Unconsciously, Will runs his tongue over his own set of nubs as he imagines those teeth sinking into the flesh of his nape. Lecter tracks the movement with his striking eyes, but if he's drawn any alarming assumptions from it, it doesn't show.

 

Lecter smooths down his cable-knit sweater, unable to help himself from grooming in Will's presence even if he doesn't quite yet realize why, and motions toward the hallway on the left. “I’ve prepared a rather late dinner, there should be enough for two. Would you care to join me? We can discuss this further over a warm meal. You look chilled to the bone, Mr. Graham. A glass of wine should do the trick.” His voice is like sunken silk, and resonates as a command, rather than a request, leaving Will little to no room for debate.

 

"Yes." Will gives him a rueful smile and nods, trying not to wobble on his feet as he intentionally brushes past Lecter. His heart flutters at their brief contact. S _top acting like_ _a love-stricken Omega_. "And please, don’t call me that. Will is fine."

 

"Short for William?" he says, taking in Will's state of undress with bemusement. Lecter moves from the doorway and crowds him against the end table with a graceful stride. Blatant posturing, the same as Jack— it’s like they can’t fucking help themselves around him; an unconscious and primal part of them stumbling over itself to put him in his place. But Will knows Lecter has no intention of harming him, not until his curiosity is sated.

 

Will narrows his eyes. "Just Will."

 

"Very well," Lecter signals for him to proceed with another grand gesture of his hand, surreptitiously sniffing the air as Will walks past— trying to place his scent, no doubt.

 

Most Alphas wrinkle their noses and give up after a few unfruitful attempts but Lecter trails after him like a hungry dog sniffing out its next meal. And he very well may be. The thought gives rise to an incipient panic that descends into a downward spiral and seizes his blood like cold steel. Will takes a misstep on the rug, sucks in a startled breath and blinks in confusion. Did he remember to take his suppressants? Or spray himself down in scent deadeners before leaving his house? He remembers nothing before winding up outside his door with the stupidest plan ever conceived and concreted in his head. And if Lecter sniffs him out, he's in serious trouble. Coming up behind him, Lecter sets his hand on his elbow and rights him with a brisk tug. Will just freezes, mouth going dry. Neither of them speaks. A clock on the wall tics in measured intervals. Each one chipping away at him tic by tic by tic…

 

It’s Will who cuts through the silence when he breaks out into uncontrollable laughter and throws himself at Lecter, whose expression goes from murderous to shocked as he mashes their lips together in a clumsy, one-sided exchange. The kiss is dull, chaste and unfeeling, and doesn't go the way Will imagined; worst of all, Lecter pushes him away. The displeasure in Lecter’s downward turn of his lip manifests itself as something tangible, the rejection sends Will’s heart into a devastating nosedive, it’s probably not the first time an empty-headed Omega has thrown themselves at him. The sting of heartbreak is fleeting as a thought, however.

 

Bringing him back to the present is the sudden appearance of a scalpel in Lecter’s hand, wicked and gleaming like a mirror, the light bouncing off its edge in an incandescent warning. Will springs back and pulls his gun free from his waistband, aiming it at Lecter’s forehead.

 

“Drop it,” Will snaps, flipping off the safety with a wolfish grin.

 

"Have you come to arrest me, Mr. Graham? You. Alone," says Lecter, raising both palms in the air, scalpel suspended in his right. "Or are you going to shoot me— riddle me with bullets the same way you did with Garret Jacob Hobbs?" In a beat, his chilling demeanor turns to cloying sympathy that doesn’t quite fit his tone, and Will’s hand trembles. "One or two is enough to bring justice, but you didn't stop there. You kept on pulling the trigger. Six bullets, an entire chamber gone, yet you still didn't stop. No. You kept going, used up every bit of ammunition you had on you. Ten times you shot a man to death and your only reason for stopping was the unfortunate fact you ran out of bullets." He pauses, then lifts his jaw as if daring him to pull the trigger. "You enjoyed killing Hobbs. Are you a killer, Will?"

 

"Arrest you," Will snorts, applying firm, resolute pressure. The muzzle presses deep between Lecter’s eyes, who flinches. It's just an act meant to fool Will into believing he’s the same as him and everybody else, but Will already knows there’s not an ounce of humanity left under that finely tailored mask of his. "No, no, Dr. Lecter. You’ve got it wrong. I don't want to kill you. I simply came to talk, not about Hobbs, about _you—_ had to see you for myself. Prove to myself that _this_ is real.” He motions in a vague gesture between them, eyes glinting with madness. “I-I'm not dreaming, not anymore."

 

"How can you be so sure?"

 

"Drop it," Will repeats, thumb dangerously bearing down on the trigger. Lecter purses his lips and complies. He doesn't realize that Will— while unhinged, yes— wouldn't dare shoot him; it's far too late for that. The scalpel falls to the floor with a soft thud, ricochets off the carpet and scatters under a table.

 

“Now,” Will draws near, shifts the gun off to the side, and places it upon Lecter's temple as they stand chest to chest. He places his palm over his heart, listens to it _thud, thud, thud,_ in perfect harmony and exhales in a slow, shuddering breath. “  _Kiss me._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block. Sorry it took so long. I started therapy again and adjusting to new medications kinda destroyed my ability to write for a while there but I'm doing a lot better now. So, yeah. Life.
> 
> We are approaching the end of the first part with the next chapter. The second part deals with actual life in the facility and I think everyone will be happy to know that the second half of the story includes: TIME SKIPS. See you (hopefully not in another 2 months)!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos. I appreciate it!!!


End file.
